


And I Watched It Begin Again

by SunshineSkies13



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caretaking, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fred Weasley Lives, Fremione Fanatics' Yule Fest 2020, Hermione Granger Has PTSD, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, POV Hermione Granger, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Prank Wars, Protective Fred Weasley, Sick Character, Slow Burn, Strong Hermione Granger, fred and hermione, smartass hermione granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 41,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineSkies13/pseuds/SunshineSkies13
Summary: “Tell me about it.”He takes a swing of firewhisky, the bottle pressed against his lips, adams apple bobbing up and down. It’s several seconds before he comes up for air.“Fine.” Fred’s eyes are bright, shining, burning and she can’t rip her gaze away. “But you have to trade me for it.”...The War is finally over. Hermione still has nightmares. Fred is drowning in survivor's guilt. But the world keeps spinning and suddenly they're enrolled in Wizarding University and trying to figure out how to be okay.Fred lives, Slow burn Hermione/FredIn progress, Updates Weekly
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley
Comments: 122
Kudos: 224





	1. I Begin at the End

PART ONE: The What Comes After  
\-------------------------------------------------

There was no time afterward.

Fred’s eyes fixating on Percy, his mouth quirking into a smile  
The wall exploding, shrapnel rocketing in every direction,

And the desperate, guttural thought of: _not him, anyone but him_

They’d learned how to spell cast without saying the words out loud - in theory at least. But even Hermione hadn’t come across many instances of wizards or witches who were comfortable with the practice - especially masterful enough to use it in battle. But beyond that - it was especially rare, impossible even, to conjure magic that performed your will without using, or even just thinking of, a spell at all.

But a lot of crazy impossible things were happening that day.

Fred’s eyes fixating on Percy, his mouth quirking into a smile  
The wall exploding, shrapnel rocketing in every direction,  
Her, with her hand outstretched, screaming his name across the corridor

And then a shock of red hair visible in the settling dust  
Then a face, mouth open in shock,  
Shoulders,  
Torso,  
Legs,

He was standing, he was alright

Slabs of stone and loose debris lay at Fred’s feet forming a perfect circle around the wizard. Hermione’s realized her arm was still reaching for him but found she couldn’t put it down, her body shaking with adrenaline. After a quick double-take at the carnage around him, Fred’s head snapped up, immediately meeting her gaze across the room. His mouth opened but if he tried to say something she didn’t hear it.

There really wasn’t any time afterward.

 _“Come on!”_ Then Ron was there, catching her elbow and propelling her toward the doorway. “We’ve got to kill the Snake! We’ve got to finish this!”

~*~

When it was finally all over, truly over, the days just passed in a blur.

At some point they left Hogwarts for the Burrow, and then they came back to make arrangements for their dead. And then they went back to the Burrow, and then they came back to Hogwarts to reconvene with what was left of the professors or anyone who was in any sort of authority. Someone mentioned Herminone was a skilled healer - one of her many studious talents. She supposed she was. So she went back to the Burrow, she went back to Hogwarts-turned-infirmary to help out. She went back to the Burrow.

For a long while, time didn’t exist. They weren’t at war but nobody seemed to know what an ‘after’ looked like - although she supposed maybe some were making better attempts at returning to normally than others.

She just happened to be one of the others.

On autopilot things seemed to work pretty well. She volunteered as a healer a couple days a week, she spoke with Harry and Ron about keeping mum about Voldemort’s Horcruxes, especially since it was unclear what faction of Wizards were poised to take over the Ministry. It wasn’t public knowledge and they don’t want to give any copycat wizard any ideas. So yes, things kept moving, but everything seemed muted, far away.

_“Hermione, I’d come with you if you wanted to visit home, it might be good to see your parents again.”_

Every now and then it was like her head broke the surface of the water for a moment of clarity -

_“Thanks Gin...but they wouldn’t know who I am, I permanently erased their memories in August.”_

_“...holy shit Hermione-”_

before she was swept back under again.

_“Seriously it’s not a big deal, can you pass the peas?”_

And then, slowly but surely, once the remaining injured were few in number and stable enough to be moved to St. Mugos and she was no longer needed, when Harry and Ginny announced they were going apartment hunting and the rest of the Weasley siblings started making plans to move back to their properties and out of the Burrow to try and restart their lives, when the numbness that had been her constant companion finally started to fade, and when she found herself starting to wake in the middle of the night screaming from nightmares of Bellatrix, she realized it was time to move on.

“What are you doing up so late?”  
“Waiting for you.”

“Excuse me?

“Our room’s below yours, I heard ya. Figured you’d come down afterward.” Fred was leaning against the counter, his posture too perfectly ‘relaxed’ to actually be natural. “Look alive.” He cracks a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he slides a steaming mug across the counter at her. Despite her fogginess from waking up from a nightmare, she’s somehow able to catch it.

“Thanks.”

The kitchen is quiet as she raises the cup to her lips and tentatively takes a sip of the hot chocolate. Her face scrunches as it burns all the way down.

“You spiked it with Fire Whisky?”

“You’re welcome.”

She raised an eyebrow and Fred’s crooked smile got a little more genuine.

“C’mon, it’ll help ya sleep.”

She rolls her eyes good naturally with an ease about her she wouldn’t have thought possible only a few minutes prior, and gestures to the mug in his hand.

“At least tell me you haven’t set me up to drink alone.”

“My dear!” Fred takes an exaggerated sip before slamming the mug back onto the counter and letting out a dramatic sigh of contentment. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She shushes him, eyes shining with laughter as she points up the winding staircase to remind him the others were still sleeping. He flashes her a sheepish smile and they lapse into a comfortable silence.

Finally, Fred properly sets down his mug and clears his throat, conspicuously not looking at her.

“I know I’ve said it before, but thank you.” She opens her mouth to brush him off, but to her surprise he continues, tone low and soft. “I should have been beyond saving. I can’t find a spell anywhere that replicates what you did, I should be dead.”

If he had said as much a few weeks ago then maybe it would have been fine. But she hadn’t been talking to him a few weeks ago, she hadn’t been talking to anybody, and now everything was sharpening back into focus and Bellatrix was in her dreams, and her mutilated arm ached, and she could remember every death eater she killed, and she could remember Harry’s face when the snake bit him at Grodric’s Hollow, and she could remember what it felt like to wear that horcrux necklace, and she could remember what it felt like to starve on the run with the entire weight of the wizarding world on her shoulders…

And now he was making her remember him.

Him, in George’s handknit sweater, winking at her across the Christmas Eve dinner because she was the only one who could tell them apart and wasn’t fooled.

Him, writing letters to her throughout her 6th year, sharing interesting research he’d dug up when inventing new products for the joke store and sending her parcels of the more pleasant merchandise.

Him, entering the fray with Potterwatch as his way to do his bit during the war, running into the battle at Hogwarts without a moment’s hesitation because it was the right thing to do -

She couldn’t say for sure when she really started to notice him, notice him apart from George and in a way she hadn’t regarded many others except for maybe Victor (and oh god Ron once upon a time).

And now he was making her remember him, the wall blowing up and thinking _No, absolutely not, not HIM_ with every fiber of her being.

“Fred, I can’t-” She took a steadying breath, gripping her mug with white knuckles. “I can’t talk about that.” There’s a slight pause, and when Fred speaks it’s the most serious she thinks she’s ever heard him.

“It’s all I can think about.” He cards his hand through his mop of red hair, eyes lifting from the floor to meet hers. “You did magic that should not have been possible to save me.”

Hermione felt color rise to her cheeks. “Why do you think, dumbass?” She quipped back, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Well actually, I don’t know.” His golden eyes narrowed a fraction and he took a step back to look at her properly. She noticed that he had actually been standing relatively close, and instantly missed his warmth. “I had my suspicions at first - I had thought maybe, maybe, it was possible that you-”

“I do Fred.” This isn’t how she wanted it to happen. The Fire Whisky was making her suddenly very tired.

“I do too.” He responded softly.

There was another pause.

“I’m not alright.” Just saying it out loud seemed to start to loosen something coiled very tight in her chest. “I need to get out of here.”

“You can come back to the apartment with us -”

“No, Fred, I need-” She flailed her arms, at loss for words. “I need to go figure out how to be okay again.” When she looked up she noticed he wasn’t watching her, his eyes had tacked onto her arm, where her sleeve had ridden up and “MUDBLOOD” was glinting sickeningly in the watery kitchen light.

“Take as much time as you need, Hermione.” Fred murmured, gingerly reaching out and capturing her hand with his own. “I’m not going anywhere.” His mouth pulled into a crooked smile and suddenly Herminie couldn’t help herself and surged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso and hearing his heartbeat with her head pressed against his chest. Strong arms were around her in an instant, head dipping down to rest his chin against the top of her head.

She was gone in the morning.


	2. From the Ashes

Leaving should have felt like a lifeboat tipping over. It should have felt like plunging into the blackness of an icy sea and trying to tread water only to find weights in your pockets.

Where do you go when you have no home?  
Where do you go when you have no family?  
Where do you go when you didn’t intend on making it out alive?

The answer, Hermione discovers, is simply:  
 _Away_

And against all odds, all expectations, all rational,

It is good.

The goodness, in large part, comes from Celica.

The cottage is by the sea, perched on a cliff peering down at the rolling waves below. A dense garden unravels from creases of where house meets land and sprawls out for half a football field, gradually tempering off into tufts of marsh grass. Flowers and vegetables pepper the thicket in vibrant pops of color and a stone pathway pushes against the growth in a feeble attempt to lead a fortunate soul to the cottage door.

Celica stands shrouded in the doorway, her extravagant and deliciously outdated maroon robes billowing in the sea breeze. Blonde ringlets fall just past her shoulders, the faintest of crows feet crinkle her eyes, and she raises one stark brow good naturally at Hermione, a silent question of whether or not she’s ready for breakfast. In answer, Hermione raises from perch where she had been meditating and pads toward the house, a Golden Labrador Retriever dutifully bounding behind her.

It’s true, the Slytherin witch had done her lots of good.

“Of course I don’t subscribe to all that rubbish.”

Hermione had initially balked at her companion’s Slytherin revelation, gesturing first at her open wardrobe of blues and deep violets and then at her home decorations befitting a very tenderhearted Hufflepuff.

“People are deeper than one thing, Hermione. Just because I presented as a Slytherin at eleven didn’t mean that was all there was to me and I had to stay that way forever.” Celica pivoted from her open wardrobe, leaving Hermione to take her pick of the garments and gliding into her kitchen in search of a kettle. “Besides,” she continued, her voice slightly muffled behind the wall, “It’s quite fascinating to see all you’re capable of without being put in a box and told what facets of your personality you’re supposed to be catering to.”

Hermione would never like to think she was the type of person to need a savior, but holy hell between housing her, the readily available library of self-help books, the introduction of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for the nightmares and intrusive thoughts, the dog, and the companionship of a weathered, clever, thoughtful witch was as close to a living, breathing lifeline she was ever going to find. She’d be forever thanking the fates for arranging the blonde witch to be looking for a healer for her arthritis just as Hermione was passing through town.

She barely remembered the day Celica had brought her back to the cottage, listened to her tale as Hermione worked on her joints, and invited her to stay. What she did remember, in great detail, was the day after, when the witch replaced her Wards, bright eyes snapping to Hermione’s and asking her if there was anyone or any owl she’d like to be let in.

She responded that there was not.

The next night, over the crackling of a fire, Celica asked if she was running away.

“No.” The tears in her eyes smudged the flickering fire before her. “I’m taking a pause to get better.” There was an extended pause as she collected her thoughts. “I want to be able to live a normal life.”

The next silence had gone on so long Hermione thought the conversation was over, when Celica spoke again, her solemn, pale face softly illuminated in firelight.

“You want to know who you are when you’re not striving for external validation with academics, or playing the supportive, less-important friend, or feeling responsible for the entire wizarding world.” She murmured. “You don’t know who you are.”

Hermione’s face suddenly got very hot, and she barked out what was supposed to be a laugh, but what deformed into a sob, and there was a lump in her throat that just wasn’t going away and -

“I wasn’t supposed to live through that!” The roar of the waves offshore seem to rise to meet her words. “I thought - I was _supposed_ \- I was going to die!” Another sob. _“And I was okay with that!”_

Celica feeds the fire another piece of driftwood and takes a sip of her tea, giving Hermione a few moments to calm down. Isobel, the beaut of a golden lab, all but launches herself onto Hermione’s lap, licking the tears off her face in a frenzy.

“Well,” Celica declared, lifting her ice-blue eyes to Hermione’s once her breathing had returned to normal, “You did live, so it’s time to decide what you are going to do next, and who you want to be.”

And thus began a year of healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I know, no Fred this chapter but we needed some ~ Hermione Alone ~ for some character development - he'll be returning with a vengeance next chapter 
> 
> Also, PLEASE leave comments!!! It inspires me to keep going lol and I feel less like I'm yelling into the void - also if there's anything you'd be interested to see. I have a general script I'm following but I'm open to ideas!


	3. We Rise Again

Broomsticks got a bad rep.   
And by a bad rep, she meant an automatic association with the competitive world of Quidditch. 

It turns out, not immediately having an affinity for balancing on a stick of wood while simultaneously hitting and chasing flying balls, does not actually mean you are an unathletic little girl who should just stick to trips to the library. 

It actually meant you should just practice a bit, and push your boundaries a smudge, and believe that there is more than one way to do and enjoy something. Broomsticks weren’t just for quidditch, they were also for adventures. 

At first it was just a way to get around the island and properly take in her surroundings. Hermione had never lived on the coast before, and found that she actually quiet enjoyed it. 

The rolling cliffs were something out of some brilliant adventure novel (which, she realized with a pang, she hadn’t ever had time or patience to read many of). But her favorite sight, without competition, was the way the sun crested above the waves in a crescendo of oranges and pinks in the morning - setting the world ablaze before she’d even finished her first cup of tea. 

So, at first, it had just been about getting the best view. And then it was about chasing the seals that loitered around the coast, her feet skimming the water as she tracked the black underwater blurs - eventually to be rewarded with a pair of large doe-eyes and excited barking as they broke the surface to greet her. Then it was about going so far out that the shore was just a spec in the distance to seek out whales. Then it was about seeing how high she could go, then how fast. 

All previous notions of herself seemed to dwindle even further as Celica’s tattered old broom quickly became one of her most prized possessions, but she couldn’t find herself minding all that much. 

It was actually when she was coming back from a late night ride when she found Celica in the kitchen, a parcel laid out on the kitchen table in front of her. 

“What’s this?” Hermione immediately prickled with unease. No one - and no owl for that matter - should have been able to detect them through Celica’s careful wards. It should have been impossible to get any delivery...unless it was very important ...unless it was from - 

“The Ministry.” Celica acknowledged, a knowing gleam in her eye. “But it’s from their Secretary of Education’s department.” Hermione didn’t move. Celica turned back to the dinner on the stove with a simple: “That means it’s for you, dear.” 

The floor seemed to fall out beneath her feet and Hermione visibly swayed as she tentatively tore the packaging open. 

Dear Miss Granger,   
Something something something- Due to the Battle of Hogwarts and the recent fallout of the Wizarding World during the academic year of - blah blah blah- N.E.W.T makeup exams will be available once a month until years end - some filler sentences about new starts and hope - Students who successfully pass their N.E.W.Ts with Exceeds Expectations or higher will gain admittance to Maedsarth, The University Of Wizardry, with no other application requirements to encourage young witches and wizards into rebuilding their lives through the means of higher education - some big long political concluding paragraph - 

“University?” Hermione breaths. “Maedsarth University? But that school pre-dates Hogwarts! It hasn’t seen a graduating class since teaching magic was proven to yield better results in younger children…” She chewed her lip, attempting to puzzle out the rapid turn of events. 

“It’s because there aren’t enough Wizards left to take apprentices.” Celica murmured gently, appraising the young witch with large, suddenly sad, eyes. “I have been hearing whispers when I go into town.” 

Hermione felt her heart sink. “That’s right, if we’d gone into our 7th year we’d be preoccupied with finding apprenticeships for a couple years after graduation in different branches of the Ministry, or wand making, or with a Dragon wrangler like Charlie.” Despite herself, the corners of her mouth quirk up remembering the elder Weasley. She’s hit with another pang of longing for a certain other ginger-haired man before she can properly tamper it down. She takes a steadying breath, recentering her thoughts. 

“It’s a clever solution, I suppose, sending us all back to school for more specialized study. Could have one professor teaching a classroom Auror lessons rather than one-on-one on-the-job attention.” She worries her bottom lip again. “But are that many people dead?” She’s been enjoying her solitude and hasn't even considered what the lasting effects of the war she helped wage had on the Wizarding World. 

“Dead, retreating into ‘safer’ muggle lives, or banished Death Eaters or Death Eater sympathizers.” Celica shook her head ruefully. “Apparently that lot had infested quiet a large bit of almost every magical industry. There have been struggles to fill vacancies, resize and restructure many fundamental organizations in the Ministry and beyond. Up until now,” Celica’s eyes flickered to the letter grasped tight in Hermione’s hand. “They hadn’t the time to think about what to do with a bunch of unemployable young adults.” 

Her last phrase hit Hermione hard, and she felt her breath escape her. She always knew she couldn’t stay here forever, had always known there needed to be an “after”, and thought that she’d done enough proving herself. Naively, she'd had the impression that she could poke her nose somewhere in the Ministry and they’d set something up for her. But...she had only had six years of magical schooling, hadn’t actually shadowed any professional, and was just barely out of her teenage years. And then, in addition to all of that, there was a sneaking suspicion growing she didn’t actually want to work in the Ministry, but had no idea of any tangible career paths outside of the institution. So yeah, “unemployable young adult” hit her like a freight train. 

The kitchen was quiet for a few minutes, just the sound of Celica’s soup gently boiling and the waves crashing outside. Finally, Hermione laid the letter back down on the table, her shoulders sagging, but a small spark of hope and excitement fluttering in her stomach. 

“I’ve got to start studying for my N.E.W.Ts.” 

The smile Celica offers her across the kitchen is bittersweet. Her pale face and delicate features appearing celestial in the low light. 

“As you should.” 

The two witches regard each other, oceans of unspoken words roaring between them. Hermione wishes suddenly, fervently, that she had more time. Celica knows her story, but has offered very little of her own. Her age is an enigma, and Hermione suspects she has many more years than what is apparent from her skin. She suspects she has decades of trials and hardships and victories and lessons. But there isn’t enough time. Something hard feels lodged in Hermione’s throat. There’s never enough time. 

Celica breaks first, turning briskly to douse the flame under the boiling soup. 

“By the way dear, I think I may decrease the severity of my wards. You see, less enchanted owls than the Ministry's have been causing quite a ruckus outside. It appears you have friends that have received letters as well and who are very excited to start college.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii 
> 
> Okay no romance yet I'm sorry I swear this is the last chapter without our favorite Weasley but I gotta set the ground work. 
> 
> I also cheated and wrote a super spicy chapter that I need like 2-ish more chapters till I can put it in for it to make sense but be on the lookout for that soon! 
> 
> also shoutout to fantasynamegenerators.com/magic-school-names.php for helping me pick the University name 
> 
> Once again! Pls comment! It brings me so much joy :)) Sorry updating is taking a little longer than I'd like. I'm in my last year of college for engineering and I am ~dying~


	4. Homecoming

While a little alarming, she finds some twisted humor in the initial blank look in Molly Weasley’s face as she pulls open the Burrow door. 

“Excuse me, how can I help - Hermione?!” 

Then it was a warm, tight embrace, a pot of tea being put on, a lot of hollering going up the staircase and a whole stampede of feet coming down.  
“Holy shit, I thought you were never coming back!” 

“Nice hair!” 

“Nice hair? More like nice tats!” 

“Where were you? It’s been over a year!”

“Does this mean you’re going to Maedsarth?” 

“C’mon, no way the Prefect would turn away a chance to go back to school!” 

It isn’t until later that night, laid out on blankets strewn across the lawn, that they’re all able to finally swap stories of the going-ons of their lives for the past year. It was easier to sprawl out in the cover of darkness, with the excuse of watching a mediator shower, to divulge how hard but how good life was after the war, rather than the brightly-lit (and very public) Burrow living room. 

She discovers Harry and Ginny had nearly abandoned their new flat within weeks of moving in. Feeling too confined, without a job, and Harry’s Gringotts gold just gathering dust, the two of them packed up without a plan and traveled the world. 

“If you think the Australian wizards are bad you should see the Americans.” Harry chortled. Beside him, Ginny’s head snaps up, suddenly very animated. 

“They’re all completely mad! Muggle sees a flying car? No worries, they’ll just think it’s a UFO, no need to modify their memory! Duel to settle a disagreement and accidently set a forest on fire for weeks? It happens every year! The muggles will figure it out.” She shakes her head, throwing herself back down on the blanket. 

Ron barks out a laugh on her left. “That’s mental.” He had just finished recounting his adventures of being forcefully kicked out of the Burrow about halfway through last year and being sent to go catch and care for dragons with Charlie. Herminone found that all the time away had completely diminished any feelings she had left for Ron, and she no longer harbored a strong grudge against him for leaving her and Harry alone in the Forest of Dean. 

“Once the twins and Percy left, Mum became very adamant I needed to do something - well just anything useful, really.” Ron had recounted in his trademark slow, low voice. “Wouldn’t want to do that full time, of course, baby dragons are absolute nutters let me tell you, but it was a good distraction for a time.” Of their own volition, Herminone’s ears pricked up at the mention of the twins. 

“How are they?” She cleared her throat. “The twins...how’s their joke shop, I mean. Business going well?” It was too dark to be sure, but she could have sworn Harry and Ron exchanged a look. 

“Err, it’s alright.” Ron dictated slowly, brow furrowing. “I mean, after George’s accident they kinda took a step back from developing new products for a bit.” Herminone felt pinpricks of unease ripple through her. 

“You mean his ear? From before the war…?” 

“Well no…” Ron dragged his hand through his mop of red hair. “Blimey I thought they would have sent you an owl.” Herminone felt her stomach twist with guilt. “No, see they were getting more and more ambitious, and I think they were meaning to find a way to transfigure actual wings on people’s backs...probably a good thing that didn’t happen, actually, could you image the type of fuckery that would be going on with “angels” showing up a catholic churches?” He chuckled darkly and Herminone had to bite her tongue not snap at him to get on with it. 

“Anyway,” He continued, detecting her annoyance. “Two ghastly deep slits opened up on George’s back during testing. No wings, just a lot of blood. The usual spells to close wounds weren’t working right with whatever they’d done to cause it and the whole thing was pretty bad - Georgie was in St. Mungos for a week. Really shook Fred up, they both took a step back for a while.” Ron shot Herminone a look. “Surprised he didn’t write you about it.” 

“I - I wasn’t getting any letters.” A blush of shame began creeping up her neck and she felt about two feet tall. “Really intense wards.” Ron raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment further. 

“I think that’s why they want to join us and go back to school.” Ginny interjected, breaking the tension. “Take more advanced potions and charmwork theory classes to improve their product lines.” She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re both brilliant and have been doing great so far - but when you’re upping the magic and teaching yourselves and testing on yourselves - well, it gets messy.” 

Harry nodded in agreement, but Herminone’s attention was snared by the beginning of Ginny’s sentence.

“You mean the twins are going to Maedsarth?” She fought to keep her voice as even as possible. 

“Yeah.” Yawned Ginny. “They’re closing shop for a year and arriving at the Burrow late tonight. We’ll all leave together after the weekend.” 

~*~ 

It was decidedly less humorous when the twins careened down the stairs the next morning, having arrived while everyone was asleep sometime past 2 AM, and had a moment of gazing at Hermione without immediately recognizing her. 

“Blimey, Herminone?” George inquired, recovering first and bounding over to where she was perched on a stool at the counter top, nursing a tea. “Would you look at that, Fred! She lives!” 

Fred, for his part, hadn’t much moved from his place at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes were sweeping over her frame with a look she couldn’t quite decipher, and Herminone found herself feeling a bit subconscious. Rather than try and engage awkwardly with Fred, she turned her attention to the more welcoming twin. 

“George!” She threw her arms around him good naturedly, relieved when he returned the hug. “How are you? How’s the back?” 

“Got some pretty impressive scars.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Bound to make all the ladies swoon.” 

“George, don’t talk about scars.” Fred snapped, then almost immediately tried to soften his words with a forced smile when he saw his twin’s shoulders drop. 

“No, no, it’s okay.” Herminone tried on a forced smile of her own, finding relief that Fred was finally talking and had moved to join them properly in the kitchen. “Look see? I don’t really even have mine anymore.” 

She quickly slipped out of her cardigan so she was just in a sleeveless undershirt and properly able to show off her new tattoos. Before she had left Celcia had sat her down and performed some impressive transfiguration that enveloped her forearm with intricately woven vines and flowers, covering the ghastly MUDBLOOD scar. Not enjoying the harsh cut-off line of the flowered vines at the crook of her elbow, Herminone had Celcia continue the enchanted ink, having the thicket of vines thin gradually and end with a few loops around her shoulder. 

Her new ink, combined with the new arm and shoulder muscle she had packed on from her time adventuring around the cottage, had changed her outward appearance a great deal when she shucked off the long sleeves. Celcia had initially wanted to transfigure MUDBLOOD away, but the scarring was so extensive - the words cutting through muscle and even some bone, that she feared making the scar just a bigger mess. Herminone didn’t mind, she liked her ‘regrowth’ tattoos much better than her previously clear skin. 

“Damn, between that and this new hair -” George ruffled her new blonde locks which were cropped to just above her shoulders and styled with a new product that made it curl instead of frizz. It had also been Celcia’s idea to try out different hair and maybe some eyeliner for her new attempt at life, and Herminone couldn’t have been more for it. “- you seem like a whole new person!” 

George threw a confused look over his shoulder at Fred, seemingly put off that his twin hadn’t lept in to finish his sentence and he’d had to do it himself after a pause. Fred cleared his throat, staring at Hermione somewhat intensely, and she found herself gazing back. 

Fred hadn’t changed much over the past year, but time had let her forget just how attractive he was. Like his twin, he towered over her and pretty much everyone else in their family except for maybe Bill. His shoulders were broad, his ginger hair darkened slightly from how vibrant it used to be during his time at Hogwarts and now cropped shorter than it was during the Triwizard Tournament days, his cow lick just barely there. His dark eyes were as expressive as ever, gazing at her with something that looked like hurt and longing. 

“Would have thought those wards of yours would have weakened eventually.” He joked, but the delivery was off, the meaning rippling under the surface.  
I kept writing you, you never answered me. 

“I needed the solitude.” Herminone stuttered, suddenly feeling too exposed and shrugging the cardigan back on. “I always planned to come back eventually.” She turned away, taking a long sip of tea. George broke the tension by striding across the kitchen and beginning to raid the pantry.

“Mum is always stocked with the best snacks.” He mused excitedly, pulling out bags of crips and transparently trying to lighten the mood. “We need to be more like her this school year.” Herminone’s head snapped up at that, the awkwardness with Fred forgotten. 

“They don’t have kitchens at Maedsarth?” 

“No-pe.” Fred popped the p, sliding around the countertop to make a grab for the bag of crips in George’s hands. When she gazed up at him again, it was like he had flipped a switch and buried the hurt and somber feelings just on display, falling back into his easy-going joker-ecs personality. Only right now she thought it seemed more like a facade. 

“They’re actually going to treat us like grown-ups, can you imagine?” He shoved a handful of crisps in his mouth before George made a grab to get the bag back. 

“No detentions, no feeding us, no proper hospital wing, no segregated dormitories…” George cut in, clearly relieved to have his good-natured twin back. 

“Lots of apartments in the wings of the castle though!” Fred quipped. “And we’ll still have loads of common spaces-”

“So it’s more like Muggle universities.” Herminone mused. “And less like boarding school for children.” 

“Exactly.” The twins responded in unison. Having plowed through the crips in record time Fred casually tossed the package in the bin while George bent down to the lower pantry cabinets to scavenge some more. 

“Good thing too, I don’t think I could actually stomach getting a detention at 24.” Fred laughed. George’s head popped up above the counter top, his eyes wide. 

“Oi! Herminone! The best part!” He straightened to full height, fighting back a laugh. “There’s no grades!”

Even though she was aware both twins were watching her hungrily for some wild reaction of deep mourning and despair, Herminone felt like someone had just lifted a boulder from her shoulders. 

“No grades?” She repeated back, a smile slowly but surely spreading across her face. “So it’s all just pass-fail then? That’s bloody brilliant!” 

The twins shared a look of bewilderment bordering on alarm when they couldn’t detect any sarcasm coming from the young witch. 

“I’m sorry, come again?” George demanded. 

“I can just focus on learning now.” Herminone sighed contently. “All the pressure’s off.” She hazarded a look at the twins, seeing them still gaping at her. “And you said no detentions too, right? That’s too bad, I guess you won’t be pulling any good pranks then.” If possible, the twin’s jaws dropped even further at this new revelation. 

“I - I mean -” Fred stuttered, and shared a look with his brother. Herminone chuckled to herself. After all, what was the fun in pranking if you weren’t riling up authority figures or riding the high of escaping getting caught? 

“It’s too bad, too.” Herinone continued, sincerely. “I actually would have liked to try and help you guys out with some pranks. I meant what I said a while ago about it being extraordinary magic.” 

“You’re fucking joking.” George spluttered. 

“Yeah, c’mon Herminone, the ex-prefect pulling pranks?” Fred lifted an eyebrow at her. Something like excitement started coursing through her veins for the first time in a long time. She got up from her stool and started walking toward the twins. 

“You know, maybe I should pull a prank on you guys just for doubting me.” She said, making her tone ominous even as her eyes were bright with barely contained laughter. 

“You’ll rue the day, you will.” Fred challenged, advancing toward her as well. 

“Oooo wait yes.” George cut in, a wicked grin lighting up his face. “It’ll be a competition, that’ll be what makes it interesting if we can’t get in trouble anymore.” Herminone and Fred raised their eyebrows at each other. 

“I like it.” Herminone declared. “Do I get to choose who else is on my team?” 

“Oh no you don’t!” George hollered. “Just you vs. us.” 

“That’s no fair, there are two of you!” 

“But are you, or are you not,” Fred intervened, a crooked smile on his face, “The brightest witch of our age?” Herminone glowered at him. 

“Oh, fine.” She relented. “But be warned, your fowl game play is making me inclined not to take it easy on you both.” 

“Oh, yes please.” George cackled, turning back to his search for food. Fred, however, held her stare a beat longer. 

“Don’t hold back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the comments, please keep them coming! It’s about to really pick up!


	5. What lies between the lines

_“Tell me about it.”_

_He takes a swing of firewhisky, the bottle pressed against his lips, adams apple bobbing up and down. It’s several seconds before he comes up for air._

_“Fine.” Fred’s eyes are bright, shining,_ **_burning_** _and she can’t rip her gaze away. “But you have to trade me for it.”_

It’s more normal than she expects. But maybe that’s just the familiar sound of her footsteps on stone echoing into the depths of a castle. Maybe it’s just the nostalgia that comes from collapsing next to a fireplace amidst a swarm of students playing exploding snap and complaining about essays. Maybe it’s just reliving the old habit of adhering to a schedule of attending lectures and keeping a planner and seeking out secret passages to avoid being late. 

She shares an apartment with Luna, and they decorate it with vibrant tapestries and scented candles and orbs of blown glass that hang in the windows and catch the light just oh-so-perfectly at sunset. They have a collection of large clay mugs and a record player for the living room and obscure talismans Luna swears by dangling from the ceiling that Hermione somehow finds endearing. 

_“It’s my fault George got hurt, I was too rash with the charmwork, I was too arrogant to double check and the worst part is he doesn't even blame me for it-”_

_“I ended up tracking down my parents, they seemed happier, I left them alone. I can’t decide if that makes me strong or a coward. ”_

After the first week they hold their first party back, a mid-sized get together of old Hogwarts comrades and some new fresh faces from the sparse few other wizarding schools in Europe. George gets hammered barely halfway through the night, clamors up on Harry and Ginny’s kitchen tabletop, pulls Fred up with him, and announces, with the sheer volume and charisma available only to the completely inebriated, the commencement of the great Weasley-Granger prank war.

_“I get stomach aches now, I think they’re probably stress or anxiety related. George doesn't get them. He seems so fine after everything and...and I’m jealous and I’m bitter and I’m trying not to be but we share fucking everything else and I’m alone in this._

“ _I have all this pain from that time that I know I need to put down, but if I do then what happens to it? Does any of it even matter? Do we go through hell just to get out the other side and pretend it didn’t happen? I want recognition that what happened_ **_happened_ ** _and it was fucked up and it wasn’t right but I don’t even know what that recognition would look like - and if it’s even possible that I could have both that recognition_ **_and_ ** _peace?”_

The following night, Fred finds her in a smaller common room, huddling over a textbook for a class she’s not in. 

“I’m not doing the prank war.” 

“Fred what?” 

“I’m not doing it. I’m not going to do it properly, and joke with you and bloody enjoy the thing until we’ve had it out.” 

“There’s nothing to -” 

“ _Hermione._ ” 

A pause. 

“At least let me get the Firewhisky.” 

  
  


_“I know this isn’t how it works, I’m aware people aren’t supposed to ‘earn’ being alive, but I feel like I need to do something big now. That there needs to be a reason I was able to be saved. I don’t know what that is or what it looks like but I think if I continue to live my life with the main goal of ‘having fun’ the guilt will eat me from the inside out.”_

_“I wanted to die for so long, I’ve had to make it my job to wake up and figure out how to live my life in a way that makes me want to be alive that day. I’m seeking out serotonin-inducing activities so deliberately it’s like a constant treasure hunt. I know that sounds exhausting but I think I was more tired just carrying a dull ache of being ready to die.”_

  
  


“Fred?” 

“Yeah?”

“How much of this do you think we’ll remember in the morning?” 

“Hopefully enough.”


	6. A start of something

It’s perfect.

Well, okay, it’s not perfect.  
It’s actually pretty cheesy and not exactly clever magic, but it’s funny. And she likes the idea of landing the first blow.

The twins are throwing the party this time. The new professors keep warning of a transient ‘syllabus week’ and how the workload is just on the horizon. The students respond by getting rip roaring drunk right up until someone has the gall to assign the first essay.

Herminone and Luna have Ginny over and the three of them waver back and forth between outrageous muggle ski suits from the 80s and dress robes that resemble Ron’s getup for the Yule ball. The theme of the night is suits - a rouge firework snuck under their apartment door a couple nights ago, erupting to spell out:

“SUITS!  
OPEN TO INTERPRETATION  
FRIDAY 10 PM  
1 GALLON FOR ENTRY”

In a fizzling display of sparks and glittering letters, the invitation hovered in their entryway before collapsing in a pile of ash spelling out WWW.

“We gotta go with the Muggle ski suits.” Ginny finally declares. “Nobody else will think to do it, and I didn’t track these down for nothing.”

“Fine then,” Hermione says, just relieved that a decision has been made. “Come here, let me do your hair.” She’s feeling more and more confident in her styling abilities - another foreign addition to her personality, but not an unwelcome one. Luna brushes into the room with a tray of spiked seltzers for their pregame and Hermione thinks she hasn’t been this happy over such a fickle reason like a party ever in her life. Things are good.

The cherry on top, of course, would be seeing Fred.  
Fred, who she had a brilliantly drunk heart-to-heart with that she can recount maybe 70% of.  
Fred, with his unique mix of light-heartedness and maturity, who’s soul might almost be as marked up as hers.  
Fred, who she left when she was confident he shared her affections and who she returned to decidedly less sure.  
She takes a shaky breath.  
It’s just Fred, who she is about to absolutely destroy in a prank war of massive proportions.

~*~

The best part is, doing shots isn’t even her idea.

James, a fresh face from Dumstrang with a boisterous personality, is sloppily pouring generous shots of tequila and drenching the counter top beneath them, wailing “SHOTS WITH JAMES?!”

The call-and-response chorus that goes around the party of an affirmative: “SHOTS WITH JAMES!” Is enough to send a very tipsy Ginny into a fit of giggles. Hermione most likely would have joined in if she wasn’t suddenly filled with a devilishly evil rush of adrenaline. She inconspicuously advances toward the shots, performs a very impressive slight-of-hand, and gathers a couple that she passed to Ginny, Harry, Fred, and George.

“3...2...1!” The only thing she can hear is the music as the talking ceases and they all drink. Hermione punctuates her shot of extremely cheap tequila with a cough, scrunching her face against the taste, when she hears it.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?!” Ron roars to be heard over the car-alarm sounds pouring out of the twin’s mouths. Their eyes are blown wide, but they’re unable to close their mouths and stop the horrific noise.

Lee surges forward, laughing hysterically and attempting to forcefully close the twin’s jaws. Apparently this is uncomfortable, and the twins dance out of Lee’s reach, hands thrown over their mouths in a poor attempt to both block him and muffle the noise. Just as the laughter begins to die and Hermione suspects the joke has played its course, she waves her wand and the noise comes to an abrupt stop. The relief in the twin’s eyes is short-lived, however, as they glance over at each other to discover they are entirely orange - bright traffic cone orange - the material of their clothes transfigured into reflective tape to boot.

“Get it?” Hermione whoops, grinning broadly at the pair. “That was your warning shot!”

George just blinks at her for a second before erupting into a laugh. Fred’s raised his eyebrows so high they are lost in his hairline.

“That’s horrible!” He chortles.

“Absolutely terrible!” George agrees, wiping a stray tear. “We are going to destroy you.”

“Or maybe I’m just giving you a false sense of security, starting easy like that.” Hermione grins. “Not too easy, though. Enjoy getting rid of the orange.”

They don’t, of course, electing to stay that way for most of the night. George makes a show of pretending strips of his reflective tape shirt gets stuck on different objects (and people) as an excuse to unwinding the tape from himself so he can careening around the room shirtless.

“Can’t you just go get yourself a proper shirt?” Katie snaps good-naturally as George pulls the last tape strip from his abs while doing a horrendous Magic Mike impression. “Don’t you live here?”

“Nope, can’t say that I do! Guess I’ll just have to stay like this.” He winks at her and then resumes giving Lee what maybe, sort of, kind of, could be considered a lap dance.

Not to take after George, exactly, but wearing a full body ski suit to a party ended up being a very hot and uncomfortable idea. Hermione's unzipped the top bit and shrugged out of the suit covering her torso, letting it fold down at her waist, leaving her in only a sports bra on top. She feels silly but somehow a bit sexy at the same time. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking - and she’s having a good amount of alcohol.

Fred finds Hermione about an hour later, perched on his counter top and taking liberal swings of a bottle of rum she’s passing back and forth with Seamus. When the irishman sees Fred coming, he smirks and ducks around him to go strike up a conversation with Ron. Hermione is at first at a loss when Seamus leaves, and then is pleasantly startled as a still-orange Fred pops up, standing between her legs, almost at eye-level now since she’s on the counter top.

“Hi.”  
“Hi.”  
“You gonna fix me?”  
“No-pe.” She pops the ‘p’ to being annoying since that’s typically his thing and then giggles. Fred appraises her with drunk eyes brimming with fondness and amusement.  
“C’moooon.”  
She grins at him, giving her head a shake.  
“I’ll teach ya how to ride a broomstick.”  
“I already know how to do that now.”  
“Oh.” His eyebrows shoot up again. “Uuummm… I’ll buy you a drink.”  
“I can buy my own drinks.”  
“But you shouldn’t buy your own drinks on a date.”  
“It’d be a date now, would it?”  
He tilts his head at her playfully, one hand coming up to cup her cheek.  
“If you wanted it to be.”  
She leans forward, can smell the alcohol on his breath and a sharp, dark musk that is unmistakably his cologne.  
“You know, I think that’d be fraternizing with the enemy. And I don’t know if I could do that.”  
“Oh yeah?” He leans in closer, and Hermione is suddenly extremely proud of her willpower as she twists away from him, jumping down from the counter.  
“Yep.” She grins wickedly at him. “And if I’m going to fraternize with the enemy, you better make it worth my while.”  
Fred, at first taken aback, seems to have recovered himself, and smirks down at her.  
“You’re on.”  
“Good.” With a wave of her hand, she returns him and George to their natural skin tone and disappears back into the party.

~*~  
Eventually, Hermione peeled herself from the crowd in search of the bathroom. In her drunken state, she was pleased with herself for remembering there was a private lavatory between each of the twin’s bedrooms further into the apartment, and she dispersed down the long darkened corridor away from the multicolored lights and raised voices.  
After accidentally picking the wrong door and stumbling into a closet, Hermione finally located one of the twin’s bedrooms and fumbled through it into the connecting bathroom. To her relief there was actually toilet paper in this one and the sink wasn’t strewn with forgotten solo cups or butterbeer cans. She decided she trusted the cleanliness to actually sit down to relieve herself.

  
Just as Hermione flushed and pulled herself to the sink, swaying slightly and giggling out how drunk she suddenly found herself, she heard muffled voices coming from the other room she hadn’t entered the bathroom from.

  
Herminone lathered her hands with a rather sweet-smelling soap and turned the tap on just a trickle, attempting to make out if people were just generally hanging out in the bedroom or if one of the twin’s had brought back a girl. But no - all the voices (and there did seem to be multiple) were in a low register, and then there was a pause that distinctly sounded like a bong rip. Hermione finished up, dried her hands swiftly on the outside of her muggle ski-pants and turned toward the door to pop in and say hey when she heard a muffled sound that sounded very, very much like her name. Her hand froze halfway to the doorknob.

“I just don’t get it, is all.”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh come off it.” Someone who sounded very much like Lee seemed to be growing agitated. “She left for a year! She didn’t return any of your letters! How are you not mad?” There was a slight pause, and then.

“You didn’t see her arm.” Fred’s voice is dark. Too dark for this magnificent party. Too dark for what was rapidly becoming a wonderful year. Hermione’s stomach flips and she hates, _hates_ , that fingerprints of a war gone by are still all over them all.

“-and I know the arm was just the tip of the iceberg, Harry and Ron don’t even know how many times they heard Bellatrix Crucio her.” She squeezes her eyes shut, and vehemently wills herself not to cry, and pictures herself back at Celcia’s cottage at daybreak, where everything is calm. She feels her heartbeat begin to even back out, and then Fred’s talking again.

“And, I mean fuck, I wasn’t alright too.” His voice tampers off and their night with the firewhisky flickers across her mind. Fred’s talking like that was all in the past. Like he’s better now.

He’s lying.

“I sent her letters just in case she changed her mind and wanted someone. I didn’t send them to get an answer if she didn’t want to give one. Would it have been nice if she did answer? Sure, but I’m not holding the fact that she didn’t against her.”

Fred’s voice is growing thick with emotion, and there’s more murmuring and someone - George maybe? - tries very hard to change the subject. Someone else takes another long bong rip.

“I’m just enjoying getting to know her again.” Fred’s voice swims over the rest, more subdued than before. “I’m just happy she’s back. Let me just be happy about that, would ya?” There’s affirmative humming in response and Hermione lingers just thirty seconds more to be sure that’s all there is, before sneaking out through the opposite empty bedroom and heading back toward the party, feeling more sober than she had all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! I really enjoy them! Thank you all :)


	7. Sweet Creature

‘Eeeeevvverrything is fuuuucked and I don’t know what to do with my liiiiiife!” Ron had his arms spread wide, turning in circles behind Herminone and Harry as the trio picked their way through the falling leaves back toward the castle. He had his ‘professional advisor’ meeting right before their weekend Karberry Village outing to discuss more specialized classes for next semester and couldn’t decide how to proceed. Hermione thought the meeting was a bit presumptuous, they had only been taking classes for a couple weeks, the twins hadn’t even pulled a retaliation prank on her yet, there was still lots of time to decide.

Harry bent down and scooped a acorn of the ground, lobbing it at Ron’s head.

“Yes you do, you just won’t admit it.”

 _“Ow!”_ Ron threw his head back in an exaggerated comical motion, rubbing the crown of his head for show. “And absolutely not, I refuse to work caring for magical creatures.”

“You’re good with them.” Harry pointed out, making Ron’s scowl deepen.

“Only because I’ve been around dragons for eight bloody months!” He wailed. “I am NOT being a Charlie 2.0, I won’t do it!”

“What ever happened to being an Auror?” Hermione piped up around a mouthful of kettle corn. “Where did that dream go to die?” Ron stopped walking.

“The forest of Dean, I’d say.” His voice came out strangled and the temperature outside seemed to drop 10 degrees. The war had a funny way of doing that, blotting out of existence for a few weeks of normalcy and then, like a giant, sleeping beast, lifting up its head from time to time. Like it or not, large parts of who they were now was a product of that war. Ron let his arms drop to his sides and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

“I mean, c’mon Hermione.” He breathed. “That type of work isn’t for me.” Hermione, for her part, had stopped walking. There was ringing in her ears.

“You came back, though.” Her voice was very small. Ron sent her a complicated look over his shoulder before turning his gaze to the ground. The words: _‘We forgave you for that’_ were thick and heavy on her tongue and do not come out.

“Well, err…” Harry finally intervened, scratching the back of his neck and leading them forward again, the pace slightly slower than before. “What about chess, Ron?”

“ _Chess?_ You think anyone is going to pay me to play Wizard Chess?”

“Wait, yeah.” With great effort, Hermione pulled herself out of old memories, rolling her shoulders back. “You like chess because there is structure, and rules, and lots of moving parts and a code to crack.”

“Oh don’t go further with that, you’re making me sound like a genius.”

“No, it’s true.” She worried her lip, deep in thought. “And for the record you are smart when it’s something you enjoy.” He hmmfd at that, but didn’t argue. Hermione pressed on. “Maybe look into the curse-breaking division of the Ministry, or antidote brewing? You’ll still be doing something exciting with real-life stakes, but a little more out of the action... and you’ll be entertained trying to solve a puzzle.”

Ron abruptly stopped walking again, causing Hermione to smash into his back and sprawl out on the pathway, her kettle corn scattering everywhere.

“Hermione, _you’re_ the genius!”

“Ron, _ow!_ ”

The ginger twisted around, grinning broadly. In one fluid motion he had grabbed her arm and swung her to her feet, brushing the dirt off her robes a little too enthusiastically.

“No seriously, genius!”

“Yes, Ron, the hair’s different, not my brain - _and stop that already!_ ”

~*~

“You do look horrible, you know.”

“Oh shove off, George.”

Hermione peered up from her essay to see the twins passing through the common space, one of the duo looking significantly rougher than the other. Harry, from his place on the floor (why he never seemed to sit in a chair was always beyond her) twisted around at the newcomers.

“Oi! George! What did you do to the poor git?”

“Don’t blame me, Harry.” The healthier-looking twin chirped, flopping down on the couch to Hermione’s right. “It’s not my fault I was blessed with both the better looks and immune system.”

Fred looked vaguely like he’d like to hit George with a pillow, but as it were he simply lowered himself gingerly on Hermione’s left.

“Tell me this is some stupid prank of yours and you’ve got the antidote in your pocket.” He groaned, dramatically collapsing his head on her shoulder.

“I still can’t get over you saying the phrase ‘stupid prank of yours’. How the turn tables...”  
“Stoooooop with the muggle references, I don’t get them.”  
“Maybe you should.”  
“Maybe you should use your special magic to make me better.”  
“Maybe you should just brew some pepper-up.”

With an exasperated groan Fred pulled himself off Hermione and flopped down unceremoniously further into the couch.

“What type of response is that?” Hermione chuckled, gazing at the twin fondly.

“We’re allergic to pepper-up.” George explained cheerfully. “Which is never a big problem when you’ve got an immune system as amazing as mine!”

This time Fred did hit him with a pillow, albeit it was a very soft, lazy toss that didn’t so much hurt George but made his grin larger. His glance then fell to Hermione and then back to his twin, an evil gleam in his eye.

“You know what would be a great idea -” He started, but Fred cut him off, still collapsed back on the couch, an arm thrown over his face to block his eyes from the light.  
“Fuck off, George.”  
“No, like a seriously fantastic idea -”  
“I’m warning you -”  
“Listen, listen, I think it’d be loads of fun if -”

“Shit!” Harry bottled upright. “Hermione it’s eleven!”

“It’s...fuck, already?!”

Both twins startled as Hermione and Harry began desperately winding up their parchment and throwing quills and books in their rucksacks.

“Jesus, is Voldemort back?” Fred asked, finding the energy to raise an eyebrow at the pair.

“Ha ha very funny -”

“Our bloody potion is done!” Harry threw his bag over his shoulder, flashing Hermione a very panicked ‘Lets goooo’ expression as she finished packing up.

“Merlin, Hermione, Harry’s sounding more like you than you are these days.” George laughed. Harry turned a brilliant shade of red.

“Oh fuck off, the potion needs six hours to brew and we got a shitty time slot for the boiler. I did NOT wake up at 4 am just to burn this thing!” With that The Chosen One bolted out of the common room, leaving Hermione scrambling behind him.

“Sorry!” She yelled over her shoulder. “I’ll see ya tonight - oh and maybe try and look after your brother instead of antagonizing him George!”

She heard a burst of laughter and ‘no promises!’ echoing after her as she tore down the corridor.

~*~

Hermione wakes to the feeling of rough hands shaking her shoulders, her eyes immediately snapping open and a scream bursting from her lips. Almost unconsciously she sends out a bolt of magic with the general intention of: GET OFF OF ME! and is rewarded with the sound of a sudden crash. Hermione takes a few breaths as her shoulders relax and blinks her eyes a couple times in the low light, peering incredulously at a dark lump out the ground.

“Fuuuuuucking hell.” The lump moans, struggling to his feet and rubbing the back of his head. “Remind me never to wake a war hero in the middle of the bloody night.”

_“George?”_

“Oh bugger off, of course you could tell the difference even when there’s only one goddamn candle lit -”

“George, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’d ask you the same thing, but actually sleeping in the library is a relatively common occurrence for you innit?” He’s still rubbing the back of his head and Hermione is stuck with a pang of sympathy.

“Sorry - are you bleeding? I can -”

“No, no, it’s fine.” George waves her off. “But actually there is something you could do for my brother…” Hermione lifts her eyebrows at the wizard, and George actually has enough humility to wince. “I know, I know, I was a git this morning but his fever’s actually gotten quiet high and he’s the one taking the bloody healer-in-training courses, not me, and I figure you’ve actually got some experience, y’know after the war and everything...and listen I just know he’ll kill me if I drag him to St. Mungos over this but there’s no hospital wing here and he really hasn’t gotten sick properly since Hogwarts and I’m just...I...well I’m just a little out of my depth here!” George babbles, finishing his tirade with flailing hands.

“Yeah, yeah of course.” Hermione scrubs her hand over her face, willing herself to properly wake up. “Help me pack up, will you?”

She and George take up a brisk pace as they navigate the castle back to the twin’s apartment. He lays his hand on a door carved from dark, rich wood, it swings open at his touch.

“C’mon.” He takes her hand and drags her though the darkened living room to the bedrooms in the back, nudging her toward the one on the left. “I think he’s sleeping now, but fair warning he’s pretty out of it.” George whispers, and Hermione nods.

“I got it, feel free to go sleep, George.” The older wizard squeezes her shoulder in thanks and shuffles toward the other bedroom. Hermione attempts to quell the nerves fluttering in her stomach as she eases Fred’s door open.

Sure, the flirting was great fun, and he’d taken her for impromptu ice cream last week, but this, invading his space while he’s vulnerable and caring for him? She’s walking into uncharted territory, jumping in the deep end of a pool, and something in her is excitedly buzzing at that prospect while she also finds herself inexplicably touched that George not only sought her out, but was comfortable leaving her alone with Fred. While George was a great many things and took the utmost pleasure in stirring the pot and shitting on all of his brothers, she knew he would never orchestrate a situation like this if he wasn’t confident Fred would be okay with it.

“Lumos.” Hermione closes the bedroom behind her, and raises her wand slightly, illuminating the room in a soft, white light. Fred has crashed, fully clothed, on top of his bed sheets and curled in on his side like he’s in pain. Her mouth presses into a thin line and her eyes flicker around the room, searching out any empty potion bottles strewn around in an attempt to determine if he’s tried his hand at self-medicating. Not finding any, her eyes snap back to the wizard as he lets out a soft groan.

Before she can overthink it, Hermione strides toward the bed, placing one hand on Fred’s shoulder, trying not to focus on how muscular it is because damn it Granger, get it together, and gently shakes him awake.

Fred blinks hard and raises his head slightly off of his pillow, cloudy eyes drifting over to Hermione.

“Hey Princess.” He rasps, his voice gravel. “Fancy meeting you here.” He attempts a smirk, but the suave expression falls flat and her eyes narrow as she notes his flushed cheeks. Before he can properly comprehend what’s happening she’s gently grasped him by the shoulders and rotated the man so he’s flat on his back and one of her hands is pressed flush against his damp forehead.

“You’re burning up, Fred.” She murmurs, easing her palm off of his skin as he heaves another wheezing breath.

“What can I say?” The wizard rasps, his eyes glassy. “I am the hotter twin.” The corners of his mouth pull upwards and Hermione almost laughs at the pure golden retriever energy just radiating from him as he gazes up at her. Instead she ruffles his hair and turns to light the oil lamp at his bedside to free up her wand.

“Anything else going on other than the fever?” She asks once the lamp is lit, suddenly making the whole scenario that much more real. Fred squints in the sudden flood of warm light, pushing himself up slightly on his elbows and seemingly waking up a bit more.

“Uh -” He clears his throat and winces. “Sore throat I guess, and I’m all achy.” His cheeks, already flushed, seemed to color even more. “Jesus, Hermione, welcome to my room, finally. Would have liked it to be under different circumstances, though.”

“Having me at your sick bed wasn’t high on your list of activities?” She smirks.

“You could say that.”

“I can leave, if you want.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He holds her stare for a heartbeat, both of them flashing teasing smiles at the other across the room. Then he breaks into a coughing fit and Hermione closes the gap between them, rubbing her hand up and down the expanse of his broad back. Fred relaxes back down against his pillows once he’s ridden out the fit, eyes squeezed shut.

“Just relax and hold still.” Hermione thinks this must be the softest tone she’s maybe ever spoken to Fred in. “It’ll just take me a moment.”

He nods, eyes still closed but the rest of his features visibly relaxing. Hermione waves her wand in deliberate, careful strokes up and down his body, murmuring incantations that are barely audible even to her own ears. Fred’s breath catches suddenly, and then he melts into the mattress, the tension seeping from his body.

“It’s no Pepper-Up, but this’ll give you some relief.” Hermione whispers, reaching out to brush the ginger hair from his forehead.

“Feelbetteralready.” Fred sighs. His eyes then open a crack as she moves to extinguish the oil lantern. “Wait don’t...I mean...not yet?”

Sickness is an alien look on Fred, humbling the broad shoulders and defined jaw line that normally give him a distinct and strong air about him.

“Not yet.” Hermione agrees softly, spotting a book left open on his dresser across the room. “Didn’t know you liked to read.”

“Not as much as you.” Fred scoffs. “But I dabble.”

Hermione crosses the room to snatch up the book and motions for Fred to scoot over as she joins him on the bed, her back resting against the headboard.

“Close your eyes.” Her voice is a whisper and he complies, once again slumping back into the pillows. Hermione watches the twin for a second, feeling something swell in her chest, before forcing her attention onto the paperback. As she begins to read she focuses on making voice soothing and soft and the lingering tenseness ebbs from Fred’s body as his breathing becomes rhythmic and deep.

When Hermione’s sure he’s asleep, she lets her voice wither away and dog-ears the yellowing page before placing the book on the nightstand. She discovers at some point he grabbed her hand, or she grabbed his, but either way they’re locked together and she doesn't have the heart to wake him to get her hand back. So Hermione rests her head against the headboard and watches him breath through half lidded eyes.

She closes them soon, before it gets creepy or weird or anything, but my god, he is beautiful. Even sick, and exposed, and scared he is beautiful. And her fingers itch to draw him, to sketch out the curve of his jaw or the peacefulness that settles over him in sleep, but she settles with pressing her lips against his damp forehead before letting her eyes fall shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so in this fic I'm deliberately trying not doing any unnecessary Ron-bashing because book Ron was funny as hell and Rubert Grint is a gem, so there's not gonna be any "Ron thinking he has claim over Hermione and attacking Fred" stuff going on if you couldn't tell, ~however~ canonically Ron leaving was pretty fucked up Deathly Hallows and we're going to explore the fuck out of that so get ready (but again not really gonna Ron bash its gonna be interesting). 
> 
> Also I'm trying to still work in elements of college - panicked running back into a lab because your epoxy is done curing in the oven or you need to check on your cell culture is real lol - also the "hey my partner is sick and our campus health services suck so I'm just going to bring them Tylenol and orange juice after hope for the best" is a thing
> 
> also also, - headcannon that Fred calls Hermione princess. Yesss I'm a Bellarke fan but I just like the feel of the nickname here too, sue me 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed some fluff! You get a little more next chapter and then the prank war explodes and once again things get ~interesting~


	8. Oh Way Down, We Go

The envelope she finds slid under her apartment door when she gets back from Fred’s is small, with yellowing parchment and a half-hazard seal.

The first line of the letter bluntly reads:

_I’ve had the misfortune to look over your transcript, what a peculiarly dysfunctional mixture of classes._

The second line goes in for the kill:

_What on earth are you planning to do with your life?_

The third line invites her to tea.

Henry Crestwell is of average height with black salt and pepper hair and eerily blue eyes that seem to glow in the dimly lit classroom. He smiles over his teacup and she counts two gold-capped teeth. Hermione almost asks if he’s a pirate impersonating a wizard (as that would also account for his lack of manners in the letter), when he licks his lips, sets down the cup, and asks with all the charisma in the world:

“So how is that dead boyfriend of yours?”

She spits her tea.  
He grins wickedly.

“My…?”

“No, no, that’s right.” With a careless wave of his hand the tea drops littering the desk in front of Hermione vanish. “My mistake, that’s not how the story ended, is it?” The harmonious lilt to his voice is still there, but when the wizard catches her gaze there’s a stony glint in his eye. “You saved him.” It isn’t a question. Her mouth runs dry. “And you didn’t use a spell.”

For a reason she can’t quite pinpoint, there aren’t alarm bells going off in her head. She isn’t affronted that this third party, someone other than Fred and her, knows. She finds she’s curious about his intentions, but not frightened. The strange man in front of her leans back in his chair and crosses his arms against his chest, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. This is what gets her attention - this stranger that bursts into her life, theatrically informs her he knows what happened, and then has the audacity to look so bloody proud of himself.

Who the hell confronts someone about having dangerously powerful magic and then acts so goddamn cocky about it?

**FALL**

Crestwall is so busy smugly searching her face for a reaction he doesn't notice his chair is tipping over until he’s halfway to the ground, his glowing blue eyes bugging out of his head. There’s a satisfying crash the echoes in the empty classroom followed by a muffled:

“Okay, okay, I probably deserved that.”

“Who are you?” Hermione rises to her feet as the suddenly disheveled wizard peels himself off the floor.

“I told you, I’m Henry Cr-”

“ _Not_ what I meant.” She almost growls. Crestwall only chuckles in response, finally clamoring to his feet. His robes are covered in dust and cobwebs and he stands facing Hermione with his hands at his sides. Then, like they’re sharing an inside joke, he winks and the dirt lifts from his robes before settling back on the ground without a wave of his wand or an utterance of a spell.

“Henry Crestwall, head researcher at the International Enchantment Research Society at your service.” He booms cheerfully, regarding Hermione with a twinkle in eye. “Here to welcome Hermione Granger into the world of Intentional Magic.”

~*~

Fred’s fever broke two days later, but it was another week before he returned to his usual self. During that time Hermione adopted a new routine of popping over to the twin’s after her evening class under the guise of checking in on the patient. The patient in question was typically more or less awake when she arrived, giving half-hearted attempts at homework he had already procured extensions on. She decided not to tell him about a certain Henry Crestwell or Intentional Magic until he felt better.

“Hey there.” She pushed open the twins’ apartment door two days after her odd tea party and found Fred stretched out on his living room couch, long legs extended down the cushions with his head resting on the arm of the couch, frowning at his textbook. He’d smothered himself in thick sweatpants and a large navy jumper with the hood pulled up, leaving only a tuft of disheveled copper hair peeking out from underneath.

“Hey.” Fred rasped, expression brightening considerably as he caught sight of the witch. He moved his feet so she had some room on the couch and then stretched his legs back out over her lap, deliberately ignoring her as she raised her eyebrows at his feet. “How was class?”

“Long.” She yawned, deciding to let his legs stay for the moment and leaning forward to fumble with her knapsack. “Brought you something that should make you feel better.”

“Oh yeah?” Fred laughed roughly. “Cuz I’m pretty sure you properly drugged me last time...”

“Oh hush, it’s hard to brew anything for the flu if half the ingredients in Pepper-Up are off the table.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “And besides, since when have you been against getting high every so often?”

Fred barked out another laugh and shut his textbook close with a thump, propping himself up a bit more.

“Alright, alright, hit me with it, Granger.”

Hermione tossed the bottle over and Fred caught it with one hand, easily unstoppering the cork and taking a large swing all in one fluid motion. He threw the bottle back in Hermione’s bag from its place on the floor when he’d drained it, relaxing back down into the cushions.

“Needs salt.”

“Shut it.”

Fred sent her a lazy smirk and she retaliated by throwing his feet off her lap as she rose to get a cup of tea, a pang of satisfaction hitting her as he groaned when she disturbed his lounging arrangements.

She chose a slightly chipped “Chudley Cannons” mug from the cupboard and turned to put a kettle on, worrying her lip slightly.

Curiosity and concern had been bothering her all week after George casually mentioned Fred had been taking healer-in-training classes when he woke her in the library. The proclamation seemed at odds with the narrative their friend group had which involved the twins returning to school only to learn more advanced charms and transfiguration magic for their product lines.

“If you’re actually curious about the healing potions, you could just ask.” Hermione mentions casualty, filling the kettle in the sink and trying to keep her hands busy. Fred’s head has popped up over the back of the couch, his brow slightly furrowed.

“No, I trust you.” Warmth gathers in her chest at first before she realizes true or not, that was just a safe answer. She's treading too lightly, he isn’t sure if she knows.

“Thanks.” She places the kettle on the stove and turns the flame on high. What the hell, it was just Fred, and discretion had never been her thing. “I just figured you might be interested since…”

Fred’s face, already pale with sickness, loses even more color.

“George told you.”

“I mean, it wasn’t really a secret, was it?”

A muscle tics in his jaw and he seems to retreat further into the couch.

“It’s only a few classes, it doesn’t mean anything.” Fred huffs, his face darkening. “It’s just for product research - I’m still working at the shop.” Hermione forgets the tea kettle as his voice grows louder. “It’s not like...I mean... fuck I’m not like _abandoning_ George or anything alright?” He breaks himself off coughing, and Hermione sucks in a breath, unaccustomed to what anger looks like on Fred.

“Okay.” She says placatingly. “I’m just trying to understand -”

“Maybe you should stop.” He bites back, turning back to the discarded textbook. Hermione’s eyebrows fly up.

“Seriously?!” He doesn't respond, although he must feel the daggers she’s starting at the back of his head. “Fred!”  
He groans in exasperation, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Leave it, Hermione.” This only serves to incite her father, anger and hurt bubbling low in her belly.

“Hey, I’m only asking because I -”

“Can’t you just leave it…” His voice breaks but he keeps going. “I mean, I...fuck I can’t even, Merin, I can’t have this conversation with _you_ of all people...”

“Me of all…?” Hermione feels the floor drop out from under her and the apartment is suddenly too small, too hot. “Merlin’s beard Fred, if you’re incapable of opening up without a pint of firewhisky in you, then I really don’t know what we’re doing here!”

Fred jolts to his feet and whips around to face her, and she’s shocked to see the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“I can’t have this conversation with you, because _you_ are the one that saved my life and _I’m_ the bloody idiot that doesn’t know what to do with it!” Fred bellows, his voice breaking at the end.

“Fred…” She says weakly, and then she’s gathered him in her arms, his head coming down to rest on her shoulder, his large frame shaking as he heaves shallow breaths.

“I thought this was supposed to be the easy part.” He manages finally, after she’s lowered them both down on the couch. Hermione shakes her head, a bitter smile stretching her face.

“I’ve come to find it’s after the war that the real fighting begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betcha thought I was gone forever!  
> Nope, just finals week(s). More regular posting soon!  
> Please leave some comments! They make my day :)))


	9. Fish Tanks and Hurricanes

It started with a trickle of water.

Like a sink overflowing, a leaky roof, a split water jug.

Then, quicker than what should have been possible, the floors became entirely wet.

  
“Can we open the door?”  
“It’s coming from the other side of the door, you dingus.”  
“Well we have to do _something_ , it's soaking the carpets!”  
“For fuck’s sake, I’m wearing socks!”

The air was then filled with the sounds of the common room door splintering, swiftly joined by the sound of windows shattering. In one terrifying tsunami of water, everyone was suddenly wet, and then they were underwater.

This rapid series of events caused quite a panic, with a lot of flailing and truly innovative swimming techniques as the students in the common room aggressively doggy-paddled to the ceiling. They sucked in great, desperate mouthfuls of air before the water swelled even higher and that too was gone.

The next scramble was to the doors and windows, but although these were blasted apart, the students were unable to pass them, as if they were up against a great barrier...as if they were to be trapped in the water-filled room...like fish in a -

Wow, okay, the twins had outdone themselves.

Amidst all the thrashing, terrified students, Hermione opened her mouth, taking in a lungful of enchanted water, and let out a deep belly laugh. She kept laughing at the expressions on the surrounding student’s faces - first disbelief, and then desperation, believing she had performed some spell that had saved her from a watery grave and imploring her to cast it on the rest of them.

“Just breath!” She yelled in a puff of bubbles. “It’s not real water!”

One by one, and then in a great rush when it was determined the first few weren’t actively drowning, the students began to breathe normally, dissolving into groups to either laugh at or be furious about what had befallen their late night study session.

“Hermiiiooooneee!” She whipped her head around (or as much of a whipping motion one could muster under “water”) to find two petulant looking twins floating to her left. “You were all meant to panic for another twenty seconds!” George whined.

“And then we were going to swoop in and do this!” Fred exclaimed, snatching a fistful of something in the pocket of his robes and then throwing it into the water.

Pins and needles exploded on Hermione’s skin, starting at her head and sweeping downward. She felt slightly nauseous and her vision hazed over.

“Fred?! What the hell did you…?” As suddenly as it started, it stopped, and Hermione’s sight cleared.

“You’re fish.” She deadpanned, blinking at the two orange clownfish in front of her.

“Actually,” Cut in the clownfish to the right. “ _We_ are fish!”

Her eyes traveled downwards, and she found herself not all that surprised to see two silver flippers where her arms should be. The laughter that poured out of her mouth echoed strangely in the water.

“Guys what the _actual_ fuck? Of all the random-ass pranks what on earth possessed you to -”

“We’re known for fireworks!” One of the grinning clownfish declared, swimming in a circle happily. “Decided we needed to expand from fire into water pranks!”

“By tricking everyone into thinking they are literally _drowning_ and then configuring them into a bootleg version of Finding Nemo?” Hermione chortled, trying to keep her words biting even as she was discovering swimming circles as a fish was a great deal of fun.

“Oh, c’mon.” The other clownfish swam over and bumped into her, stopping her spirals. She didn’t have to be a detective to sus out that one was probably Fred. “You can’t be that mad at us, we made you an angelfish after all!”

“Cuz we think you’re an aaangel, Hermione!” Exclaimed the one that must have been George.

“An angel that’d never get us back for this.” Fred said coyly, bumping against Hermione again. She grinned back at him (or at least she tried, her fish body was weird) and bumped him in return.

“C’mon now, I know you guys aren’t the ‘brightest wizards of your age’ but you can’t be dumb enough to actually believe that.”

~*~

It took maybe ten minutes worth of consideration later that night to determine that an appropriate prank response would be to snag one of the remaining elements. Earth was out of the question since there was no way in hell Hermione was recreating Fred’s falling-wall / brush-with-death incident, so that just left air. And there was a lot she could do with air.

During lunch the following week, as students flooded the hallways back to their apartments or to the food vendors that set up shop in one of the castle’s great halls, the witch murmured an enchantment she had stayed up many a night perfecting, and smiled as she felt the tell-tale breeze lift the hairs on the back of her neck. Within seconds, a pocket of wind had built under each witch and wizard in the premise, lifting them carefully into the air and swirling in such a way that no witch had to suffer the embarrassment of her robes flying up.

There were shouts of alarm and surprise that then dissolved into whoops and laughter as the students realized they could direct the speed and direction of their own personal breeze, commanding it to fly them around the castle to their heart’s extent.

After a few minutes of watching the laughing students and beaming with pride, Hermione felt a lurch of excitement as a strangled yell echoed from a long corridor behind her. To the new prankster’s utmost satisfaction, one Weasley twin after another shot out of the hallway and into the great hall like a bat out of hell, their winds whipping them around in a mess of robes that lashed about wildly.

“GRAAAAAANNNngeeeeerrrr…!” One of them bellowed, his voice first booming around the hall and then becoming quieter and quieter as his wind zipped him out the door to god knows where.

The second twin made a wild grab for her as his uncontrollable wind rocketed his flailing body by her, but she twisted away at the last second. “Oh no!” Hermione laughed. “This is _your_ ride.”

The twin that was probably Fred stuck his tongue out as he was flipped unceremoniously upside down and unwillingly yeeted deeper into the castle. She let the ordeal go on for another ten minutes before dissolving the spell. The groan of the students as they lost their controlled ability to fly was almost enough for her to want to reinstate it, but in the end pity for the twins won out, and she grabbed a coffee and headed to her next class instead.

~*~

At the next party, Lee, swaying dangerously on a 3 legged stool, announced the twins had been award a: “generous, yes GENEROUS Weasley, don’t go questioning the all-powerful judge and jury, now” 6.5 points out of 10 on account of scaring the shit out of students who had just: “survived a _bloody war_ you absolute _gits!_ ” and been thwarted halfway through before the fish configuration finale could be a surprise. However, because they had actually figured out how to safely configure humans to fish and back again with only the slight side effect of coughing up a rouge scale or two, they hadn’t completely bombed their first scoring.

Hermione, on the other hand, landed a neat 8.7 out of 10 for playing off a theme, giving the students a non-life threatening experience (“AY! Technically nobody was in any _real_ danger of drowning-!”) and generally putting on a good show. When she received her score Fred immediately configured her into fish out of spite, and George fell out of his chair laughing at her floundering on the carpet. Later that night, she accidentally-on purpose spilled her drink down Fred’s front and he cracked a smile before pulling her onto his lap.

“Yeah, okay, I deserved that.”

~*~

Hermione savored the pranks and parties, not because other things were bad per say, but they were definitely harder.

“What are we doing?” Her voice is thin in the frigid air, and Fred cocks his head toward her, eyes meeting hers over the rim of his thermos.

“Whatta mean?”

The witch shrugs her shoulders uncomfortably, her eyes scanning the brilliant foliage dappling the trees across the lake.

“I don’t know. You took me out for ice cream, and now a picnic.” She picks at a cuticle. “I took care of you when you were sick.” Fred’s cheeks color and he glances away.

“You did.” His voice comes out rough.

“I’m having a weird time with classes...and my future career..and stuff.” She drew in a great breath, anticipation coiling in her belly. “Would you...wanna hear about it?”

“I-”

“Like, are you a person that’d like to hear about my day...and keep taking me out to eat? And…”

“And be around if you get sick?” Fred finishes. Before Hermione can react, he hooks an arm around her waist and falls backward onto the picnic blanket, pulling her onto his chest in his decent. She manages a surprised: “hffmph?!”, her face smushed into his jacket. He smells like gunpowder and pine and she breathes deeply for a moment before lifting her face and peering up at him incredulously.

“Yeah, yeah I would.” He smiles, his voice low. From her place on top of him, she can feel the words rumble in his chest. “Tell me about your day, Hermione.”

So she does. She tells him about Crestwell, and magical research societies she might like to be a part of one day. She tells him about Intentional Magic, and how it’s similar to the wandless magic they spewed as children, except not founded in emotion, but, as its name implies, iron-willed intention.

She tells him how not everyone can do it, how Crestwell is both turning her into a researcher, and a test subject, and a weapon.

She tells him how she’s had to start Auror training, because someone with a power like that is useful, a secret weapon, the big guns, something to pull out when a mission goes terribly wrong. But for all that glory and status she is also something the Ministry has marked as dangerous if gone unchecked. And Hermione very acutely aware she is being both utilized and monitored, but it’s the only regulated way she’d be allowed to continue.

He is a good listener. He does not tell her that it’s not a good idea when she explains the costs. He sticks his freezing hand up her shirt on her bare back when her mood turns too brooding so she can laugh and chastise him and send him ducking for cover around the trunk of a large oak.

A warmth settles in her chest that hasn’t been there in a long time.

She does not tell him about the nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, leave a comment if there's any interest in an R rated chapter between Fred and Hermione? Also generally what you like / dislike about the story / pacing ect.


	10. Silver Spoons

There was a quote that Hermione had read somewhere or another that she’d never quiet been able to shake.

  
_“When you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off of knives.”_

  
And to be sure, she had felt affection from her parents growing up, and platonic affection from Harry, and endearment from the general mass that was the Weasley family. But romantically?

  
Pretending the past few years with Ron never happened was a dance he performed out of guilt and she performed out of necessity.  
If Celia had drilled anything into her head it was that you could live, truly live, if you were still hanging on to the past. And Hermione knew that she never would be able to visit the Burrow, or return to school, or go to parties, or generally hang out as “the golden trio” if Ron continued to take up so much residence in her head.  
So she shrunk him.  
Bit by bit  
Ever since that night he had packed his shit and left them in the Forest.

He wasn’t _Ron_ anymore. Not her lover, not her confidant, not the object of her affections, the object of her anxiety, the object of her  
Desperation,  
Hope,  
Obsession,  
Future.

She remembered sometime after the battle but before she’d found Celia she’d been passing through the hustle and bustle of Cork in Northern Ireland. A woman with dark hair had exited a shop, bent down and scooped up her toddler with flaming red hair, and perched him on her hip as she began her stroll down the cobblestones. The child wrapped trestles of her hair in his pudgy fists and burst into high pitched infectious giggles that bubbled down the walk. Hermione had to sit down on a stoop for a few minutes and remind herself to breathe.

Nothing had been easy with Ron. Not the communication, not the attentiveness, and definitely not the respect. But he was her security blanket in a bleak, dark world, brimming with potential that swirled around him so thick it was intoxicating.  
He could be insensitive, but if she could just teach him not to do certain things again, it’d be fine.  
He wasn’t the bravest or the most selfless, but he had good moments, and he’d grow to be better, it’d be fine.

Ron was a serrated knife dripping with love, and she was starving.  
So yeah, for her to be okay again, he had to shrink.  
Had to be nothing more than a friend.  
Had to no longer be her Ron,  
Covered in broken promises and good intentions.

Fred was another story.

Fred had _been_ another story since her 5th year in the most innocent of contexts before she’d even been paying attention when he’d left Hogwarts in a roar of fireworks and the letters started.

_Heyo - Ron’s being a prat and won’t answer in a reasonable amount of time so I’m writing you. How’s the DA going? Need any products?_

_Herm-oh-ninny! How’s it shaking? In case your answer is badly, I’ve included some puking pastilles for Umbridge or Malfoy, whoever’s more of a git this week...or for both. I’ve included quite a few of them, actually._

_GRANGER! WE FINALLY GOT THE INSTANT DARKNESS POWDER WORKING RIGHT! WHAHOOO! AND YES, YES, THIS WAS_ DEFINITELY _WORTH A HOWLER!_

Then his father had been attacked and she’d found herself sitting up with him and George at Grimmauld Place, then nipped down to the shop a decent amount to say hi over the summer, then exchanged more letters the next school year, and then gone conspicuously silent during the “Won-Won” era, because things were weird and she was heartbroken and being friends with Fred was beginning to feel complicated. Hermione was determined not to make things messy by seeking comfort for her boy troubles with said boy’s _brother_ who she also may have felt a certain way about. And then her and Ron made up, and things were taking a turn for the better with him, and she felt she could write Fred again, and then it was summer and  
she was packing,  
she was erasing her parents memories,  
she was dancing with Ron at a wedding, seeing the silhouette of a tall twin watching over Ron’s shoulder and thinking: _It’s a shame the timing was always wrong_.

Then, of course, there was the patronus declaring the Minister of Magic dead, and all hell broke loose.

She was in that hell for a while and latched on to her relationship with Ron like a lifeline as everything became bleaker and bleaker.  
And then he left.

He came back later, of course. But it was too late.  
Ron had left her, starving and lost and on the run, dumped his portion of the weight of the wizarding world on her shoulders, and taken off.  
So yeah, he came back. But for her sanity, by the time he did, she had already begun to shrink him down.

~*~

“WHO’S BLOODY IDEA WAS THIS?!”  
“Oi! OI! It was Ginny’s! Ginny’s! Getoff me!”

Seamus abandoned drowning Dean and made a charge for Ginny, but his plight was abruptly interpreted as Hermione Intentioned a large wave of water in his direction. He went down dramatically shrieking at the cold.

“Blimey, he sounds worse than the fat lady.” Harry chuckled between chattering teeth.

“Gin?! Exactly how long do we need to stay in here?!” Hermione howled as a wind breezed down her neck and triggered a violent shiver.

“One more minute!” Came the reply from further out, the witch in question oblivious to their discomfort and treading water.

“You know what? Nope. Nope nope nope. Dumb idea, very dumb, oooooh Merlin….” Seamus groaned, swimming toward the edge of the lake and dragging himself up the beach.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck I’m tapping out too.” Dean said, wincing as he followed.

“BABIES!” Ginny cried. “ABSOLUTE BABIES, THEY LOT OF YOU!”

The five students were submerged in the lake behind the castle, the water an inky purple in the low morning light. To Hermione’s relief, the sun had just begun to crest over Scotland’s rolling hills. It softly edged the horizon with timid pinks and lilacs, hinting at the explosion of orange to come. The preliminary sunbeams were too weak to confront the pressing chill of late autumn, but the emergence of the faint light was enough to lift everyone’s spirits.

At Ginny’s goading cry, Hermione set her jaw and shared a glance with Harry. Wordlessly, they both sank further into the lake until finally Ginny let up and the three of them paddled to shore.

“Tell me again why you wanted to do this?” Dean groaned, lobbing towels at them that they wasted no time burrowing into.

“One of my Healer classes is discussing the benefits of dousing yourself in cold water, especially when you’re depressed or have anxiety.” Ginny breathed, her lips tinged blue. “Jumpstarts a lot of beneficial processes in your body and helps circulation. I figured with midterms we could all use a pick-me-up.”

“Whisky is a pick-me-up.” Seamus grumbled, huddled under his own towel in a heap on the grass. “I don’t know what the bloody hell that was.” Hermione shrugged.

“I quite liked it, actually.” She found she was so numb it actually turned her brain completely off for a few minutes. It left her freezing, but a good amount calmer.

“You’ll make a great Healer, Ginny.” Harry smiled, pride radiating off of him in almost tangible waves.

“Slow your roll.” The witch chuckled. “It’s a backup if this professional Quidditch red-shirting falls through, or something to do after I have a couple a couple glory years.” Harry swung his arm over her shoulder as the group began to pick their way across the grounds back to the castle. The long grass was wet with dew, and tickled their ankles as they strode across the sweeping lawns.

“Oi, speaking of which!” Seamus shouted suddenly, pivoting and walking backwards so he could see them all. “Whatta think of starting Intramural Quidditch?” The couple shared a look.

“Err, isn’t that a bit unfair?” Harry offered meekly.

“Nah, we’ll split all you washed-up legit Quidditch players among the teams. Keep it interesting.” Dean smirked.

“I’ll make some flyers!” Seamus declared, his excitement building by the second. “Gauge some interest!”

“Let me know if you want help.” Hermione piped up. She braced for a few incredulous faces, but it appeared her friends had gotten accustomed to the unexpected from her. Her shoulders relaxed.

“I’ll give you some one-on-one practice if you want to try your hand at being a seeker.” Harry offered. “That position might be more up your ally.”

“Oh, no you don’t! That’s no fair!” Dean cried. Harry shook his head.

“That witch helped me save the world.” He smiled at her. “I owe her a million private lessons if she wants.” Hermione ducked her head down and blushed.

Life was hard, but sometimes it was really good too.

~*~

Hermione had been dating Fred Weasley only a couple weeks but found herself enjoying it immensely.

The thing that stuck out to her the most, other than how bloody _easy_ it was, was how they weren’t codependent.  
She’d never been in a relationship that wasn’t before.

It was funny. They both enjoyed separate classes and had a few hobbies and friends independent from each other. She saw him everyday but not every night, and he made it a priority that they’d have a proper date once a week. She didn’t feel less wanted in this arrangement, quite the opposite really, but she did feel freer.

George, for his part, had upgraded her from ‘dear friend’ to ‘surrogate sister’. She noticed him go out of his way to sandwich her between himself and Fred at every opportunity. Due to the height difference, attentiveness, and downright protectiveness (funny considering she was the most powerful of this new trio) she felt like she was roaming the castle with bodyguards whenever they were around.

“Will you be on my Quidditch team?” Fred tugged lightly on a strand of her hair, rousing Hermione from her book. He flashed brown puppy-dog eyes when she looked up, and she had to wonder for the umpteenth time how he managed to pull off cute one minute and hot the next. It simply wasn’t fair.

She placed her book down on the bed to properly address the wizard lounging in torn jeans and a black t-shirt with his head in her lap. She swept her fingers through his thick red hair as she pretended to contemplate his offer.

“Getting tired of always being on the losing side, Weasley?” She jibed, enjoying the play-scowl she got in return. It was true, her score in the prank war had continued besting the twins, much to their annoyance and insistence they were simply “going easy on her”.

Whatever they wanted to call it, the fact remained that the prank war had now dissolved into one team setting up a prank, and the other team trying to thwart it. The students in the peanut gallery found this gameplay much more entertaining, albeit a smudge harder to score. Just the other day it was Herminone’s to turn to go first and she’d taken full advantage of the rare November snow storm that had buried the castle in a good two feet of snow. When the students attempted to cross the grand courtyard, approximately 20 enchanted snowmen materialized and pelted anyone nearby with hard-packed snowballs.

She’d lost one point since a few snowballs caught Seamus and a couple other students in the eye and provided the pre-healer students some real-life practice, but it still ranked just higher than the Weasley twin’s rebuttal of enchanting all the telescopes on the astronomy tower to whirl into position and reflect (and magically amplify) the sun’s rays to melt the courtyard snowmen. They had lost a few points since not only did they melt the snowman, but also Neville and Luna’s impressive snow forts with it.

“Georgie and I are not the losing side.” Fred declared, indignant. “We just like a close game is all.”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean, where’s the excitement in wiping the floor with the other team in the first half?”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.” Fred furrowed his brow playfully and rose up a couple inches to peck her on the mouth.

“Anyway,” He said once he was settled back onto her lap. “I’d like to be on the same Quidditch team, I’d feel a lot better if I was hitting bludgers away from you and not toward you.” Hermione cracked a smile and ghosted her fingertips down the side of his face and under his chin, tilting it up slightly toward her.

“Yeah, I gotta say I’d like that better too.” She murmured, watching a lazily smile spread across Fred’s face.

“Mmm, good.”

She lent down, kissing him gingerly as her hand slid from his jaw and ghosted down his throat. Fred took his time deepening the kiss, his large hand sliding up the back of her neck and into her curls, his hand fisting on the hair close to her scalp and pulling. She gasped into his mouth and he laughed softly.

“My Princess.”

If Ron was a knife, Fred was a silver spoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter for ya! Hope you liked it, more to come soon. I finally have more time since schools out for winter break. Shoutout to everyone leaving comments, they are so sweet and you inspire me to keep going lol.


	11. Fire and Nightmares

Crestwell hardly blinked when the lamppost exploded. Hermione ground her teeth, her cheeks flushing red in anger.

“I almost had it!” She shouted furiously over the wind, but her mentor just shook his head.

“You didn’t, your concentration slipped halfway through.” She narrowed her eyes and resumed her stance, holding her hands out infront of her, outstretched toward the foreclosed house.

“You need to _mean_ it with every fiber of your being.” Crestwell repeated for the third time that night, and it was all Hermione could do not to roll her eyes like a teenager.

“I am meaning it!” She snapped. “What else am I missing?!” For the first time, annoyance flashed across the wizard’s face, but he immediately tampered it down.

“That’s all there is! You need to mean it with every fiber of your being. You need to want that house to burn just as much as you wanted to save Fred.” Crestwell’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the house. “This is a large dose of magic, you’re not replicating some simple repulsion charm. Now try again, and try harder.”

Hermione wanted to retort that it was absolutely impossible to want a random house to burn down as much as she wanted Fred to survive, you absolute _psychopath_ , but had a suspicion he wouldn’t care. Instead she closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths.

Hermione wasn’t fond of directions like: “Just mean it more!” She interpreted it as an oversimplified, polished suggestion, lacking any footholds or nooks for her to properly explore. Magic was easy to summarize, but there was more for those who pulled back the curtain. Common Latin roots, snippets of wand movements, the geographic history of a spell’s origin, there were always pieces left behind, linking seemingly unrelated magics together and telling a story. Hogwarts taught spells and magic like they were finite, like it was possible to learn every incantation and be able to confidently declare that you were done at some point. Hermione suspected it didn’t work like that. The pieces could be rearranged, new magic could blossom, if only someone had the patience to remake the puzzle.

But of course, before she could dig into that, before she could even fathom applying for her own research grants, Hermione needed to become a trained researcher. She needed to master Intentional Magic and publish her findings with Cretwell. She needed to graduate. She needed to set this bloody house on fire.

Hermione opened her eyes and began to study the fixture. Its white paint was peeling, the pigmentation stripped from the wood in great, large flakes. A few windows were half haphazardly boarded up with plywood, the rest all shattered glass and crooked windowpane. The speckled shingles on the roof were a charcoal grey in the moonlight, and the entire house groaned, a low, mournful sound, as a great gust of wind whipped through the valley.

She thought back to the battle with Fred, something she really, really didn’t want to do. _The nightmares I’m going to have tonight…_ she thought bitterly, but tried to push that from her mind for now.

When the wall fell, she had pictured how she wanted the rubble to land to a T: a perfect semi circle around him, the slabs of wall descending in a manner that wouldn’t hit or graze his head. Fred emerging completely unharmed, untouched, and _alive_. Hermione’s eyes flickered back to the house and traveled up to a second story window obscured by an impressive amount of plywood.

 _There._ She thought. _The first spark lights right there._ Her gaze crawled upward. _The flames will flood into the room, and then climb up the exterior, eating its way to the roof._ Her stomach twisted with a sick sort of excitement. _And then the roof will fall in._

Hermione settled back into her stance, arms outstretched and jaw set. She repeated where she wanted the spark to catch and how the flames would blossom and devour like a mantra in her mind. Her fingertips began to tingle, the air became thick with the metallic taste of magic, and then the house caught.

She stepped back and fell inline with Crestwell, the violent fire bathing them in a warm light and pleasantly warming her face.

“Finally.” Crestwell snipped, but he placed a hand on her shoulder as they watched it burn.

Eventually, when the structure was all but unrecognizable, the plumes of smoke billowing into the air almost suffocating, the wizard stepped forward, mirroring Hermione’s previous stance. It took about thirty seconds, but the fire finally tampered out.

“We cannot create or destroy matter.” Cretwell explained, lowering his hands. “Only manipulate it. You need to study as much of the universe as you can to know how best to bend it to your will.” He waved carelessly at the remains, smoldering in the grass. “To douse the fire I couldn’t fabricate gallons of water, so I displaced the oxygen in the air.” Finally, Crestwell properly turned to his pupil and offered her a grim smile.

“You did good today, but we have a long way to go.”

~*~

In addition to her regular course load, weekends Auror training, late night sessions with Crestwell, and attempts to sleep between nightmares brought on by memories triggered by said training sessions with Crestwell, Hermione couldn’t believe she had also signed herself up to play Quidditch.

The intramural season hadn’t properly begun yet, but Harry had started their private Seeker lessons almost immediately. She was making good progress, finding her time doing loop de loops, stops and starts, and chasing sea creatures had served her well.

They met almost exclusively at the crack of dawn before classes, which inadvertently served as a very good excuse to avoid sleeping over at Fred’s on bad nights. By reasoning she needed her sleep and had to be up early tomorrow, she had thus far prevented herself from having him around when it was a nightmare night. The dreams typically occured after Intentional Magic sessions, so she was able to schedule sleeping over at the twin’s around them.

Hermione wasn’t exactly discrete when she experienced them, and had a tendency to scream a lot. Luna had informed her of this over breakfast after a particularly bad night, but in typical Luna fashion hadn’t appeared put off by it. Instead, she offered to hang dreamcatchers above Hermione’s bed. After a month with no improvement, Hermione obliged and watched the blonde fasten the artifacts to her ceiling with a warm feeling in her chest.

For a reason she couldn’t explain, it was easier to appear weak in front of her friends, like she had with Celcia, then with her boyfriend. Everytime she considered letting Fred in, her chest compressed and liquid panic would course through her veins. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t understand, or wouldn’t be kind about it, she liked to believe he would, but the mere prospect of confiding in him made her breath catch in her throat.

Late at night, during a good night, she had sat up with herself and tried to name the feeling that overcame her when she considered confiding in Fred. After about an hour she hadn’t made much progress other than vague conjectures about her ‘shadow self’ that didn’t quite feel right, when a vision of the Forest of Dean flickered into her head. The response was immediate. 

Hermione began to cry, desperately re-shrinking someone she thought was long gone and gasping air into her lungs. And then the panicky, vulnerable feeling hardened. And the tears stopped.

She’d left to handle her shit on her own, it wasn’t supposed to follow her back here. Despite this, it had, and she’d be damned if she let him know. Being with Fred was a wonderful, magical thing, and she was determined to keep it that way.

~*~ 

**RATED R BELLOW**

One of the ways being with Fred was absolutely wonderful, happened in the bedroom.

Fred loved to savored life.  
He sought out pleasure in the form of laughs, adventure, and good company. He never rushed, he rarely stressed, and he knew how good life could be and was determined to have it that way.  
Hermione often suspected it was these qualities that made him such a good lover.

The first few times, she let him take control. He’d undress her slowly, biting down hard on her lower lip as gentle fingers unclasped her bra. He’d have her completely naked, sprawled out on the bed, tight and wet around his fingers before he’d even consider removing his own clothes. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, the desire to get him inside an actual burning between her legs, whimpering ‘please, please, please’ until finally, finally, he’d remove his fingers, suck them off, rake his dark eyes down her naked body, and place his hand around her throat.

“What do you want, Baby Girl? Tell me what you want.”

Then him, at her entrance, slipping the head of his cock against her wet folds, teasing her with the tip, just the tip, and then a great thrust and a low groan as he bottomed out. She’d grab his wide shoulders, nails biting into his flesh, and gasp as she felt full, full, full.

Another thing about Fred, he knew how the female body worked.

If it was missionary, it was a pillow under her hips, his thumb at her clit, and then a hand pressing on her lower stomach as she got close. He’d throw one leg over his shoulder to hit that spot _just_ right, bring both legs up to get as _deep_ as possible, and then suddenly withdraw and turn her around, her cheek against the sheets, her ass in the air, a larges hands on her hip and between her shoulder blades as he entered from behind. They did occasionally make love, but if he was behind her, he was properly fucking her.

There was never a time where she didn’t cum at least twice before he did. Her orgasm would build and build, leaving her biting his shoulder if she remembered or simply crying out when she didn’t, releasing hard around his cock. He’d keep the same pace and pressure on her newly sensitive cunt, and she’d whimper as another orgasm would immediately start to build.

Eventually, he’d reach orgasm, his thrusts becoming even rough and desperate. “Babe, babe, I’m gonna -” and then he was warm inside her. They’d stay connected for a few breaths, collapsed on top of each other, and then Fred would pull out and fetch a wet cloth to clean her. While she waited, Hermione would curl in on herself, her lower stomach pleasantly cramping and her pussy throbbing with the aftershocks.

She loved it.

What she loved more, however, was what came after a few sessions of being submissive. Never one to deprive himself of any experience, Fred was predictably a switch. She savored having him beneath her, his expressive brown eyes large and lustful as they stared up at her. She’d enjoy giving it back to him, roughly pushing her thumb against the underside of his jaw and angling his face up and away as she sucked hickeys into the soft flesh on his neck, occasionally moving her lips lower and bruising his inner thighs. She enjoyed gripping his prominent hip bones that tapered into a great V as she pushed him deeper into the mattress, then grabbing his hands and holding them firmly above his head. Sometimes she’d fasten them to the bedposts with his own tie, other times she’d command him not to move them back. There was something immensely satisfying and erotic about ordering about a 6’2” man with lean, prominent muscles who could easily overpower you, and having him _listen_.

The best, however, came after a tantalizingly long amount of time, when she’d finally lower herself down onto him. She’d watch Fred’s face grimace with relief and then how he through back his head in pleasure as she began to move. After a few stops and starts to rile him up, she’d lean forward, bury her face into the crock of his neck, brace her forearms on either side of his head, and bounce. He’d never last too long with that one.

“You’re beautiful, you know.” Fred murmured into her hair after a particularly good session. He’d gently cleaned her up and gotten them water before collapsing back on the bed with her in his arms.

“I bet you say that to all the women you take to bed.” Hermione jabbed playfully. Fred’s face scrunched up in annoyance.

“George is the flirt, Love. Don’t get us confused.” Hermione just laughed.

“I don’t get why you hate that joke so much.”

“Because,” Fred answered, his voice suddenly hoarse. “It’s just you for me. Has been for a while.”

A sarcastic retort died on her tongue and Hermione lifted her head to meet his gaze. Fred’s thick red hair was so disheveled it was wavey, curling up the nape of his neck. His freckles were lost in the flush of his face from their recent exertion, and he studied her with warm brown eyes so tender she thought her heart would break.

“Yeah.” Hermione responded softly. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a different spin on a general smut scene - I hope you enjoyed it  
> Also, look forward to an apex of the plot soon - I know it seems like I've been going a million different directions but its all about to come together in the next few chapters.  
> Thank you again for the wonderful comments, they mean so much :)


	12. I Will Follow You Into The Dark

She hadn’t miscalculated.  
She honestly, truly, hadn’t fucked it up.

The pattern was right,  
Her bad nights were consistent,

Until they weren’t.

She startles awake in the darkened bedroom, ice in her veins and a blood curdling scream ringing in her ears.

“Hey! _Hey!_ Hermione you’re okay, you’re alright...”

A couple things register one right after another. She’s not at the battle of Hogwarts, she’s in her bedroom. That horrible scream belongs to her. Fred is holding her against his chest - _Fred is holding her against his chest._

She scrambles away so hard she almost falls off the bed. The twin lurches forward and makes a grab for her just as she reached the edge, catching her around her torso.

“Hermione! It’s okay, I promise it’s okay.” But it’s not. He’s here, he’s seen it all, and everything is going to be ruined.

Everything is going to be ruined.

It’s this thought that startles Hermione out of her dark hole of panic and flings her into damage-control mode.

“Fred, let me go.” He complies wordlessly and Hermione swings her legs over the edge of the bed and forces herself to stand, only shaking slightly. It’s too dark to see much of anything, and she scrubs the sleeve of her night shirt over the tear tracks on her face before lighting her bedside lamp.

Fred blinks up at her in the sudden wash of light. Despite everything going on, Hermione’s heart stutters in her chest as she is once again reminded of how beautiful her boyfriend is. His red hair is disheveled, the bedcovers pooling around his waist, and his bare chest, speckled with freckles and hardened from years of quidditch, is illuminated softly in the warm light. But it was all wrong, he wasn’t cool and cocky Fred, pinching her ass playfully and pulling her back to bed. His deep eyes were blown wide in equal parts concern and alarm.

“Hey,” He kept his voice soft, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal. “Was it a dream? Do you want to talk about it?”

For a few seconds she could only bring herself to stare at the wall just to the left of his head and breath. He waited patiently on the bed, seemingly afraid to reach out and touch her.

“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded small and unnatural even in her own ears. She swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry, it was just a bad dream. I really don’t get them often.” Fred cocked his head, regarding her with a strange look on his face. “Really, it’s okay.”

“Mione -”

“Is it okay if I ask you to go?” Fred’s eyes momentarily widened in surprise, and then he wiped his expression blank. He nodded.

“Of course.”

The only thing worse than watching her boyfriend disentangle himself from her duvet, pull open the drawer she had given him to grab a shirt, and slip on his shoes at 3 o’clock in the morning was the thought of him staying in her room for even a second longer.

“Please send me a Patronus if you need anything.” Fred murmured as he approached the doorway. “Seriously, I don’t care what time it is.”

She couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact so she only nodded and waited for the sound of her bedroom door closing and then the sound of her apartment door shutting behind him. When Hermione was confident he was gone, she doused the light, laid out on her floor, and spent the rest of the night first trying to calm down, and then completely dissociating.

~*~

The lake felt even better than she had remembered.

It took a few minutes, of course, the cold biting into her skin as she sucked in air between chattering teeth. But her body adjusted, and everything became numb, and Hermione was able to float in its inky depths, her mind more quiet and feeling more present than she had in awhile.

Before too long the witch made her way to the shoreline, pulling the water behind her with long, powerful strokes. She chalked her surprising strength up to her Quidditch sessions with Harry. She liked feeling strong, and she definitely hadn’t been feeling that lately - in more ways than one.

Speaking of Quidditch, Hermione made out a gaggle of students perched on brooms about a football field’s length away from her when she turned her attention in the direction of the castle. Now that she was paying attention, she could hear their laughter carry across the empty field. One of the players broke away from the rest, quickly descending to catch either a quaffle or a deactivated bludger someone in the group had absentmindedly dropped in what must have been a time-out. The player’s red hair glinted in the early morning sun and Hermione felt her stomach drop before she realized:

  
1) That could have been George or Ron instead of Fred, this far away she had no way of knowing  
2) She herself was definitely too far away to be recognized, and  
3) if she kept to the outskirts of the field on her trek back to the castle, she could keep her anonymity.

The last thing Hermione wanted to do was to explain to anyone why she was going swimming in a very unmagical and unheated lake in November. They’d think she had a death wish.

The rest of the week after her horrible night with Fred passed in a blur. The prospect of finals had finally made its way onto everyone’s radar, and free time was quickly becoming a rare commodity. She saw Fred infrequently, they had snippets of light conversation in the corridors between classes, and they’d shared the same commonroom with their mutual friends for a late-night study session, but that had been it. Hermione was at a loss. She wanted everything to be normal, it was so good when it was normal. The last thing she wanted to do was address what had happened, and as immature as it might be, she decided she’d just wait for it to blow over.

“Whatever Fred did, I’m sorry on his behalf.” Hermione’s gaze snapped up from the essay she was writing, her ink bottle spilling across her lap.

“What?” She choked out, and then looked down to realize the ink was seeping into her robes. “Oh, fuck.”

George gave an absentminded flick of his wand, the ink retracting from Hermione’s clothing and collecting back into the bottle.

“I said, I’m sorry. Well, he’s sorry.” George scratched the back of his neck. “I mean he’s been moping about the apartment for a few days now, and he weirdly came back at 3:30 am the other night.” He shot her an amused look.

“George, I -”

“No, wait, just listen. He’s fixing you both up a date tonight. I’m not supposed to tell you that, but I just wanted to make sure you’ll go, give him another shot.”

“George it’s really not like that -” He just waved her off.

“I don’t need to know details. I just had to tell you he’s annoyingly depressing to be around so he’s definitely sorry for whatever happened and for the sake of my spirits at the very least (you don’t know how much of a moaning myrtle he’s being lately) you should say yes to the date.”

Hermione snapped her mouth closed, guilt twisting in her stomach. But George was studying her with an expectant look on his face and finally she gave a nod.

“Yeah, of course I will.”

“Great!” The twin banged his hands on the table as he jumped to his feet. “Good talk Mione!” She watched him go with her stomach churning.

~*~

Fred knocked on her apartment door at 9. It was strange because she’d charmed her door to open for him automatically if he tried the knob, but tonight he knocked.

She greeted him with her hair specially done in a half-up, half-down style, her face framed with loose ringlets. She wore a sleeveless black dress with a high gold colar and dark lipstick. He had said to get dressed up for drinks in the downtown sector of magical London (he’d set up a portkey), and she may have taken his direction a smidge far, but she wanted to put in the extra effort for him. She wanted to have a nice, normal night.

Hermione pulled open her door to find Fred leaning against the frame with his hands shoved in the pockets of dark dress pants. He wore a simple white button down with the first few buttons undone and the sleeves pushed up and rolled past his elbows. His hair was still slightly wet from a shower, darker red than normal and slightly tousled. He greeted her with a crooked smile and warm eyes, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Even with heels on, Fred still towered over her.

“Shall we go, Love?”

The first bar was far nicer than their usual haunt next to the castle where their friend group had become regulars on account of the cheap butterbeer pitchers. It was dimly lit, with chandeliers of glittering candles hanging from the ceiling, and enchanted birch trees growing throughout the room. The tree’s tallest branches flattened against the ceiling and then crisscrossed across the expanse of it, making their way to the nook where the ceiling met the walls and edging downward. It was beautiful and otherworldly and the most magnificent thing Hermione had ever seen once she’d gotten a few drinks in her.

They teased each other about the looming finale of their prank war, gossiped about the formation and fairness of the intramural Quidditch teams, and people watched and laughed at the ridiculousness of a few of the couples in the bar. Eventually, Fred pulled her behind one of the larger birch trees in the back and kissed her senseless, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and cradling her face between large, careful hands.

Their next stop was the ballroom at an upscale hotel. They were offered masks at the door and Fred became very excited he’d accidentally gotten them tickets to a masquerade.

“This turned out even better than I thought it would.” He grinned, smoothly sniping two flutes of champagne from a nearby server.

“Fred, how much did this cost you?” Hermione wondered tentatively, her eyes skimming the elaborate room. The twin just shook his head, passing her her champagne and wrapping his free arm around her waist, settling his hand on her hip.

“I’ve barely touched any of the money I put away from the shop since starting school.” He said. “Don’t worry about tonight, just enjoy it.”

And enjoy it she did.

The night ended with them slow dancing to no music in the middle of the street. A light drizzle of rain was in the air, and the muggle street light above them reflected back on the wet pavement. Hermione had her cheek pressed against Fred’s warm chest, feeling the reverberations as he hummed them a slow song she couldn’t name. They swayed together softly, fitting together perfectly - his hand cupping the back of her head and the other wrapped securely around her waist.

“Thanks for tonight.” Hermione whispered, nuzzling closer into his warmth.

“Of course, Princess.” Fred murmured. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who loves frequent updates? I love frequent updates!  
> Thank you thank you thank you for your comments! Hoped you enjoyed this fluffy chapter, the ground work has officially been laid, and things are finally about to get bumpy. *evil smile*  
> Don't worry, you'll like it


	13. Snitches and Bludgers

It was unanimously decided that since there was only a month of classes left before break and finals were looming on the horizon, there wasn’t going to be enough time to get off even an accelerated intramural Quidditch season. Instead, veteran Hogwarts players organized clinics to bring those with only backyard, pick-up game experience to speed. There would be a few scrimmages, but the league would actually hit the ground running come the spring semester.

Hermione’s regular private lessons with Harry were put on pause as he and an ex Hufflepuff chaser named Mirilda started mentoring a group of five perspective chasers. Hermione was thrilled after the first session to discover she was the best of the bunch, but was still acutely aware she didn’t yet hold a candle to Harry. It would expectantly take years to fully catch up - there were some things that just required practice hours and experience to excel at. The minute weight shifts and reflexes could only be honed by collecting more hours on a broom and handling a snitch (although her hours reading strategy books was still extremely useful).

Organizing the teams was another beast in and of itself. Ginny and Katie Bell took the brunt of it, pulling up stats from the old Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Drumstrang players, asking those leading the clinics to rate their new players, and running various simulations to determine fair combinations of experience levels across the varied Quidditch positions. It didn’t help that all of the old Quidditch players were vying to be back on teams with their mates.

A couple days before one of their few scrimmages, Hermione found Fred and George hounding Katie in the corridor, unabashedly begging to be paired up. When this didn’t work (“We are NOT putting two of the best beaters together, you’ll literally start _killing people_ with bludgers -!”) they decided they conveniently forgot how to play Quidditch.

Within seconds George was sitting backwards on a broomstick, pretending to be very confused on how flying worked while Fred was listing the rules of other sports with befuddlement worthy of an Oscar.

“Oh! So it’s the one with the ice and the puck! Wait, no, no that’s not right, that’s baseball. Must be the one with the pole vault…?”

“Merlin’s beard, guys.” Katie threw back her head with a groan. “I was on the same bloody team as you!” The twins gave her innocently blank looks. She fixed them with a stare. “You’re really trying to tell me if I owled Wood right now he wouldn’t know who you were?”

“Wood?” Fred scratched his head. “What a peculiar name, is it a nickname of some kind?”

“Ah, yes.” Nodded George. “A nickname perhaps referring to some sort of ‘morning wood’ debacle?”

“SEPARATE TEAMS!” Katie bellowed, abruptly turning and hurrying away to hide her laughter. Hermione rolled her eyes, advancing toward the pair. Fred was watching Katie go with his arms crossed and a shit-eating-grin plastered on his face while George smoothly dismounted from his broomstick.

“Almost.” Hermione giggled, coming up and hugging Fred from behind.

“Almost.” He confirmed, before spinning around to face her. “At least she let me have you.”

“Oh well.” Shrugged George, throwing an arm around Hermione’s shoulders once she’d released Fred and they began to walk back to the apartment. “But fair warning, I’m not going easy on the both of you.” He flashed her a wicked smile. “Shame there isn’t a hospital wing here.”

“That’s fine, isn’t that what Fred’s for?” Hermione replied easily. There was a heartbeat of silence before she realized she’d done something very wrong. George stiffened beside her and dropped his arm, managing a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah it appears that way, doesn't it?”

Hermione snapped her gaze toward Fred who had a hard look on his face. The air felt heavy between them.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Hermione mumbled, backtracking although not completely sure what she was so sorry for. Fred and George never fought, about _anything_. She wasn’t sure what she’d stumbled into, but decided that was definitely her cue to go. “I actually remembered I needed to meet Luna, I’ll catch you both later…”

She gave Fred a quick kiss and he flashed her a tight smile before she hurried down the corridor in the opposite direction.

~*~

It took Hermione, on average, twenty seconds to complete an Intentioned Magic of any substantial magnitude. Simple tricks like levitating classroom items or pushing back a wizard (namely Crestwell when he got too annoying) she could do instantaneously, but any Intention on scale with burning a house still required an annoying amount of time to prepare. This seemed to bother the Auror department and Hermione more than it did the Researcher.

“The point is that it’s possible.” Crestwell was keen to remind her. “There’s a measurable method, a pattern, to it. The results are replicable. It’s peer-reviewable.” He’d turn his too-bright blue eyes on her and flash the gold-capped teeth in an honest smile. The wizard had been very pleased when she’d told him about her visualization technique. “It’s publishable now, Hermione. Who cares if it’s not the most suited magic for battle? This is big, and it’s brimming with all sorts of different potential!”

 _But I want this magic to keep people safe._ Hermione thought bitterly. She’d been able to save Fred with it during the battle, but hadn’t been able to do anything that powerful and that quickly since. She had a running sense of dread that it had just been a fluke. _I need this magic to keep us all safe._

It didn’t seem to matter she had no idea what she needed to keep everyone safe _from_ anymore.

~*~

FRED’S POV:

The other beater was absolute shit.

He knew it wasn’t fair for him to be annoyed at the poor bloke, but he just couldn’t help it. George read his mind, when he moved up the field, George hung back. When George tacked right he swooped in to cover the left. They were extremely good at setting each other up as well, striking the bludger toward the twin who had a better angle on a more influential chaser, and watching him line up and take the shot. They communicated almost telepathically. Playing now felt like he had one arm tied around his back.

It didn’t help that George was technically the better Beater of the two. Not that he’d ever admit it, and not better by much, of course, but when Ginny and Katie had pulled their stats, he wasn’t surprised to see George had racked up more hits than he had.

Before that hadn’t bothered him so much, but now it was just one more thing George had a better a handle on than Fred. George, who emerged from the War still shiny and new. George, who signed up for all advanced transfiguration and charms classes next semester as was the plan, while Fred secretly filled his schedule with strictly healer courses. It didn’t stay a secret for long, of course. Ginny was quick to find him on the roster for all her classes, and she’d gone to George, and George had confronted him civilly, with his emotions in check and asking all the right questions. This just made Fred even more guilty, and angry, and volatile.

“We’re in business together, you can’t just take up a whole other career and not talk to me about it..."

“Can you just sod off, George! I’m not becoming a bloody Healer!”

“Then what are you _doing_?”

He didn’t have an answer. And standing in front of composed, put-together George who had just made improvements to the extendable ears by himself using charms from a class Fred _wasn’t even in_ , just made him feel all the more pathetic.

Speaking of, Fred watched with dread as George lined up a shot and sent one of his less experienced chasers into a spiral as the bludger made contact. He ground his teeth, wondering where the fuck his other beater had gone, goddamn it, that was his zone, when he heard a shout from above.

Hermione, clever, talented, brilliant Hermione, had finally put a stop to this god-awful game.

Sunlight illuminated her hair like a halo, and her brown eyes shown with triumph. Clutched in her fist, struggling feebly, glinted the telltale gold of a snitch. The opposing chaser wasn’t even anywhere near her, which was all the more fabulous because that player was a legit ex-chaser from Drumstrang.

Hermione’s gaze flickered across their cheering teammates and finally found his. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing still labored from her chase and her smile wide. Fred flashed her a wide grin in return, his sour mood forgotten as his chest burned with pride.

When they all landed Hermione was swept away in a crowd of her femlae teammates toward the showers, and Fred made the trek with two ex-ravenclaw players he’d been friendly with at Hogwarts. He tried not to feel too stung that George was nowhere to be found.

An hour or so later, freshly showered with his irritable mood returning, Fred pulled open his apartment door to find George lounging in an armchair. He braced himself for another uncomfortable talk, or at least a cold shoulder from the previous one, but George appeared to be preoccupied. He sat with his legs haphazardly thrown over the arm of the chair, his attention captured by the sketchbook in his lap. At the sound of the door, his head jolted up, a smirk spreading across his face.

“You’ll never guess what.”

“What?” Fred responded dully. George briefly shot him an irritated look before he was overcome with excitement once again.

“I know what Hermione’s final prank is going to be!”

“You what?”

George flipped the sketchbook around to display an intricate tree at various two dimensional views and three dimensional rotations. The margins of the paper were congested with mathematical calculations, and the branches of the tree were ordinately dimensioned.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Fred managed, moving closer and sitting on the edge of the coffee table.

“She’s transfiguring away the grand staircase, that clever git.” George chuckled. “Turning it into one grand jungle-esc tree that everyone’s going to be forced to climb to get to classes. Each of the branches will line up with different floors. Apparently she’s working in some treehouses and vines you can swing across floors with as well to help raise her score.” Fred let out a low whistle between his teeth.

“Well, shit.” Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion, surveying his brother with amusement. “Wait, hold on, how do you know this?” George at least had the decency to look a bit bashful as he tapped something small and flesh-colored in his ear.

“New and improved extendable ears I was tinkering with.” He replied, hurrying his words so they wouldn’t be stuck on that bit for long. “I followed the group of girls she was with back to the castle and overheard her. Thank god I did too, now we have time to prepare. This is the last prank before finals.” The twins shared a look. It went without saying that they needed to score higher than her with this last prank to pull an overall win.

Slowly, an idea began to take form in Fred’s mind.

“Never fear, Georgie, I think I know just the thing.” George raised his eyebrows.  
“Oh? Do tell.”

“Simple.” Fred’s gaze fell back to the sketchbook. “What’s another word for something wooden, Feorge?”

His twin’s brow furrowed, eyeing Fred intently. Then his expression cleared and he barked out a laugh.

“Are you perhaps referring to kindling, Gred?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my main intention was to tell this entire story from Hermione's POV, but I think to fully do it justice we need Fred's POV, especially for what's to come ;)


	14. A Push, A Spark, An Undoing

Her tree is magnificent.

To be fair, she knew it would be. With training sessions with Crestwell winding down, and Quidditch finally going on hiatus until the spring season, even with studying for finals she’d had a lot of extra time on her hands.

She'd modeled her tree after those in the Amazon Rainforest. The trunk was approximately thirty feet in diameter and the color of damp, rich soil. It took root in the castle's floors, disturbing the stone and serving as a solid foundation for her 10 story monstrosity. Lianna vines, which appeared as vibrant green cords of rope, snaked up the trunk of the tree and intertwined throughout the patchwork of branches.

The grand staircase had been splintered apart, its territory usurped by her creation, but not to the student’s detriment. If they were to climb the coarse trunk and subsequent branches, they could easily disembark at whichever floor they chose and not miss class.

For some added flair, and a nod at her muggle-born past, Hermione had added some tree houses nestled in the most congested thickets of branches, their design very George-In-The-Jungle- esc.

Speaking of a certain George, the grand finale would be when the twins showed up. Once they were within 20 feet of her creation, their clothes would be transfigured away, and they would be left in nothing but a loin cloth. (Get it? George (and Fred) In The Jungle!)

There just wasn’t any conceivable way she was losing.  
And fuck, she just needed a win right now.

Hermione set herself up one floor up from ground level, peering over the balcony as classes let out. There were shouts of surprise as the students discovered her tree, and then bouts of laughter and shouting as they wandered into the thicket of branches and began to explore.

Ten minutes ticked by and still no sign of the twins. Hermione was growing restless, becoming bored of watching her friends flirt in and out of different tree houses. _Where were they?_

No sooner had she had this thought, that a great shout went up. Hermione watched slack-jawed as all of the students in her tree appeared to be levitated into their air, and then thrown gently onto the nearest floor. They hardly had time to catch their breath and reassess their baring when a loud _BOOM_ ricocheted up the castle, followed by another identical, deafening sound. Almost like...almost like footsteps…

Hermione thought her heart may have actually stopped when the dragon emerged into the ruined stairwell. The unmistakable red scales of the Chinese Fireball glistened as if recently polished, the spikes erupting from the crown of its head reflecting the image of Hermione’s pale face back at herself.

 _They’re crazy._ Hermione thought desperately as she peered at the spectacle below. _They’re actually fucking crazy. You can’t bring a real life baby fucking dragon inside a crowded building-!_

“That’s it, that’s it..” Fred had his arms stretched out in front of him, walking backwards toward her tree and beckoning the dragon forward. “Here we go now…”

George took up the rear, his wand at the ready and aimed at the back of the dragons head. A hush had fallen over the students, now all crowded around the railings of whichever floor they were on as they watched the procession below with bated breath.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Fred exclaimed when they reached the trunk of the tree. It never even occurred to Hermione to enchant their clothes away. Every hair was standing up on the back of her neck. _Fred!_ She thought desperately. _What are you doing?_

“WE PRESENT TO YOU, WEASLEYS WIZARDING PETTING ZOO!”

Nobody clapped. The only sound in the castle was the Fireball panting. The twins seemed to take this stunned silence in stride.

“No petting today, though.” Fred winked. “Today, our very drugged, high-as-a-kite, no-threat-to-you, guest here has a job to do!” Again, no claps. Fred shrugged it off. He carried an air of ease and cockiness that seemed at odds with the gravity of the situation, flourishing his hands dramatically as he spoke. “Would you do the honors, George?”

“IGNIS!” George bellowed, taking care to enunciate clearly. The young drugged dragon’s ears pricked up at the familiar command, in one smooth motion, took a breath and blew a column of fire straight at the tree.

There’s a certain kind of peace at watching something magnificent burn. Hermione had felt it when she’d ignited the abandoned house, and she felt it now, even though the thing burning was forged from her blood, sweat and tears.

The fire swept up the trunk and dispersed down the branches. The leaves caught quick and shriveled up fast, but the thick wood took longer. It glistened with green embers and softly crumbled. Charred branches broke off and plummeted to the ground below.

Soon, the last remnants of panic seeped out of Hermione and the rest of the student body. The dragon was harmless, rocking slightly in a drug induced stupor. The tree wasn’t burning out of control, but softly, gradually. In the back of her mind the thought starts to take form that they must have known. Everything was just too perfect. They must have somehow known.

Those cheating bastards.

The cheating bastards in question were watching with their arms thrown around the others shoulders, identical smug smiles on their faces.

“Ready for the grand finale?” Hermione heard one of them stage whisper, and then small bursts of fireworks sparkled sporadically throughout her ruined tree. More fireworks billowed out of the twin’s sleeves, and they threw their arms up, letting the fireworks free into the open air. The students, feeling secure and entertained, oo-ed and aw-ed and the twins’ faces grew even more smug. George even mounted the drugged dragon. They finally had their audience.

~*~

Eventually, the twin’s firework display finally begins to fizzle out and the impromptu audience members in the back of the hoards begin to peel away to shuffle back into classrooms. Hermione is still bouncing on the balls of her feet, her mind running a million miles an hour, trying to conjure a way she can still salvage a win out of this one. Behind her, another branch splinters and plummets into the mesh of ash and sparks below, a responding ‘BOOM’ echoing up and up the magnificent staircase.

Hermione finally jumps down from her perch, absentmindedly intentioning that she lands softly on her feet. Fred and George whip around to face her, their faces gleaming with mirth.

“Admit it Granger!” Chortles George, dismounting the dragon with a whoop and barely landing upright on the stone floors.

“We wooooooon!” Fred twirls around in a circle with a shit-eating grin lighting up his face, the last remnants of fireworks sputtering out from his upturned sleeves and whizzing through the air.

“I mean, really, how could we not? This is our profession, Greg!”

“Absolutely right, Feorge! But it was mighty cute of the Prefect to try and-”

A couple things happen suddenly then.

The firework sparklers, free from the confinements of Fred’s sleeves, are stopped in their lazy spiral upwards as they make contact with, and subsequently scorch, the unprotected flesh beneath the dragon’s left eye.

The creature, momentarily roused from its drug-induced stupor, bellows. It lunges to its feet, jaw unhinging, front legs swiping out, desperately searching for the enemy.

Instead, it finds Hermione.

For once, she’s grateful for ‘constant vigilance’. In a second, she’s clocked the incoming threat and twisted out of the way of snapping jaws. All thoughts of pranks and twins drain from her head and she feels cool, collected, and excited. It feels almost like Auror training. The witch bounces backwards, waiting for an opening. She needs a headshot with a powerful confundus spell to safely sedate the dragon. Briefly, the thought of using her Intentioned magic flickers across her mind, but she immediately banishes the thought. She can’t perform powerful magic in less than twenty seconds at best - there’s no bloody time.

The dragon’s movements begin to slow after a second, and Hermione seizes the opportunity, darting forward and just barely casting the spell before twisting out of the way of incoming claws. She immediately feels in her gut that the spell successfully landed, a rush of dopamine coming a second later when she hears the bang, and turns to see the beast passed out on cracked stone.

“You buffoons!” Hermione howls, belly laughing despite an incoming wave of light-headedness. “Okay, I’m sorry, but that’s gotta count as a point to me - we’re even now at the very least - I mean sure you destroyed my tree but -”

“Hermione!” She finally turned from the dragon to peer at the twins properly. George had gone pale, his freckles harsh against his skin and Fred appeared to be shaking.

“What?” She reached out a hand to brace against the nearby wall, winded from her battle. “Can’t stomach that you were beat by a Prefect-”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Suddenly Fred was sprinting toward her, a muscle working in his jaw and his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. “Fuck, Herminone stop it - I’m not joking anymore, dammnit I’m not joking - holy shit, holy shit can you sit down -” Following his gaze she looked down and felt the room spin, every ounce of the adrenalin working hard to keep her on her feet evaporating as she saw the blood flooding her shirt and gushing down her torso.

“... oh.”

Hermione didn’t remember falling but she’s suddenly peering up at the castle ceiling. She barely registers the clamor as the prank onlookers surge closer, acquaintances and new friends calling her name, shouts that resemble the twins cutting through the noise as they attempt to push through the crowd.  
She can’t puzzle out if she was bit or caught with a claw, but either way the wounds begin first to burn and then to feel as though she’s being split open. There are faces hovering over her, watching her, as she’s pinned to the ground in earth-shattering pain, unable to move…

The panic attack both builds and erupts almost instantaneously. Belletrix feels like a living breathing entity in the room with her, hovering just out of sight, and ready any second for round two. Hermione’s whole body throbbing with danger danger danger, her lungs filling up with water, she can’t breath, she can’t stay here she can’t stay here she can’t breath-

A hand closes around her upper arm just as she apparates, and with a strangled yell she struggles to hold the mounting panic at bay just long enough to adjust the magic to allow slide-along apparition without splinching whoever grabbed her.

They land with a hard thud in the dimly-lit Prefect’s bathroom on the 7th floor, and between shallow, quick sobs, Hermione howls.

~*~

FRED P.O.V

Fred lurches to his feet, barely registering his new surroundings as he desperately surveys Hermione. The witch is crumpled on the floor, drowning in a pool of crimson. His stomach knots as he tries to estimate how much blood she’s lost and he surges forward, exerting a gentle but firm pressure on her shoulder to get her laying flat on her back so he can see the wound properly.

“No!” The witch sobs, her entire body shaking under his fingers. “Get me - get - get me up!’

“Hermione you -”

“I NEED TO SIT UP!”

Strong hands grasp under her arms, gently pulling her into upright position and leaning her against a nearby wall. She heaves a great breath that rattles a bit in her chest, and then her eyes completely unfocus.

Fred wants to throw up.

It’s different in his Healer classes. It’s easy to triage someone he doesn’t know. A faceless someone with injuries that contort into just another puzzle to solve. A puzzle with high stakes, but a puzzle nonetheless. It’s so different when it’s Hermione.

He gives himself permission for one panicked breath. Then two. And then he wills the emotional part of his brain to switch off.

It does.

He reexamines Hermione.

He gets to work.

And then the blood is seeping back into her body, and the gash is closing, and her spleen is mended and she’s even beginning to wake up a bit, and it’s all going oh so good, until he points his wand at her cracked ribs and forces them to mend in a series of painful cracks.

And then she’s screaming.

Hermione’s eyes snap open, her pupils blown wide and staring blankly at the ceiling. Her whole body is convulsing, her screams are getting worse, and then she finally lifts her head, and whisky colored eyes meet his without actually seeing him, and suddenly he knows where she is. And then he can feel the magic pulsing from her body, and he knows what she’s about to do.

“HERMIONE NO -!”

The older wizard watches helplessly as his girlfriend apparates again, this time only a centimeter to the right. But that was enough.

Because in a final display of heroic, harrowing, misplaced self-preservation, Hermione, war-torn Hermione, spinches her scared arm clean off her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD THIS CHAPTER PLANNED OUT IN SEPTEMBER! SEPTEMEBER!  
> You know how in some books there's million different plot lines and then they all weave together at the end? Well here we go. 
> 
> Again, thank you for the comments loves, I adore them!


	15. If You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going

Somebody is on top of her.

It’s not so much something she sees, or feels, it’s something she _knows_. Her chest is burning and her arm is on fire and somebody is on top of her and everything’s going wrong.

“We didn’t - we didn’t take anything-” Her voice isn’t working properly, and her words contort into a whimper.

There’s distorted noise on her left, someone else is talking now - she realizes they’re calling her name and a roar of panic hits her like a train.

“I DIDN’T TAKE ANYTHING!” She needs to sell this, needs to make _her_ understand. “I didn’t -” She cuts herself off with a scream, her ribs are cracking, there’s someone on top of her, and she needs to get the boys out of the cellar…

And then someone is carving into her arm and she throws her head back and shrieks.

~*~

FRED’s POV:

“Did you have any idea her PTSD was this bad?”

George finally voices what everyone in St. Mungo’s waiting room is wondering. He asks it gently, and not at Fred directly, but he feels his heart clench anyway. Across the room, Harry is shaking his head, looking like he’s not entirely present himself. Ginny squeezes his shoulder bracingly, grounding him back to reality.

After some deliberation, the healers were able to piece together what must have happened. Most likely, being in excruciating pain and on the floor surrounded by people had mentally transported an already unstable Hermione back to Malfoy Manor. Harry was able to recount they’d had to heal her entire rib cage once they’d gotten her to Shell Cottage, and the Healers theorized Belletrix must have broken Hermione’s ribs and then crushed the fragments even more as she held her down to carve “MUDBLOOD” on her arm. It would explain why the ribs cracking as they were mended had triggered someone already reliving a traumatic episode to anticipate her arm was about to be mutilated.

It was at this point in the discussion that Fred excused himself and was sick into a nearby bin. Since then, they’d all been sitting in relative silence in the waiting room for a few hours before George’s question.

“Yeah, I mean, there must have been signs, right?” Ginny probes tentatively.

“Sorta.” Fred’s voice is a croak. “I knew...I knew she had nightmares.” He drags his hand through disheveled red hair. “But she really _really_ didn’t want to talk about them...”

“You should have tried harder.” It’s the first time all night Ron’s spoken from his place slumped in the corner. His face is red and his lips twisted into a sneer. “You’re her bloody boyfriend now, you should have been there -”

“I was there!” Fred clings to his sudden spark of anger like a drowning man to a lifeboat. “Fuck you, I did nothing _but_ be there!” He’s standing now, chest heaving. George leaps across the small room and puts two hands bracingly on Fred’s shoulders, interrupting his view of Ron and pushing him back into a seat.

“Rub two braincells together, Ronald.” George hisses as he does his best to placate Fred. “How well do you think it would have gone if Fred pushed and pushed and _demanded_ to know what was going on with her?” Ron, however, is still furious.

“You’re both bloody geniuses! You could have figured out a way if you actually tried -”

“RON!” Harry’s temper, unnoticed by the rest, reaches a boiling point and explodes. The room immediately hushes. The two men lock eyes. “You _really_ don’t have a right to say anything." His voice is dangerously low.

There’s a pause, and then Ron deflates. His shoulders sag and the snarl drops from his face. Luna rises with an airy “lets go get something to eat” and guides him out of the room.

After Ron’s departure all of the anger evaporates from the waiting room and a crushing sadness rushes in like it’s filling a vacuum. Fred desperately wishes he could have something else - someone else - to be angry at again. Instead, guilt returns, and there’s a lot of it.

Guilt for getting carried away and orchestrating the dragon prank that nearly killed her, guilt for forgetting to give someone with PTSD a sleepless draught or a pain block spell before healing her ribs, a seemingly irrelevant guilt that joins the party anyway about being a shitty twin to his brother and always wreaking havoc or being a problem, and a final, black guilt that swirls thick around him and whispers _‘you got another chance at life, and_ this _is what you’re doing with it?’_

George must see something on his face, because he comes to sit next to him and grabs hold of his hand with white knuckles.

“Hey.” George says softly, urgently. “It was a mistake. She’s going to be just fine. It was a mistake. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

A couple hours later a nurse informs them visiting hours are over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey - so reading this back it kind of leaves off sounding like Fred is going to get all suicidal - please don't worry he's not. I'm not at all about to write something that dark. There's just about to be a whole lotta reckoning with some built up emotions and themes that have developed throughout the story. 
> 
> I hope you guys are still enjoying it so far! Let me know your thoughts!


	16. White Walls and Worried Faces

Hermione was unconscious for a day and a half following the accident. Healers had attempted to explain that reattaching the arm was complicated business but her waiting room of friends were growing increasingly dubious and frustrated. The lot of them were quick to remind any healer that would listen that they’d attended Hogwarts’ apparating lessons at the age of _sixteen_ and people splinched themselves and recovered all the time!

Finally, exasperated, a seasoned mediwitch emerged from what was the closest comparable medical practice St. Mungo’s had to muggle surgery and had done her best to explain.

“When witches and wizards splich themselves by accident, all of these lines of communication are still open between their body and the severed limb. Neural pathways, the mesh of connective tissue connecting bone to ligament to muscle - they all act like a live wire that’s been cut. Electricity is still flowing through this metaphorical wire, so to speak. The nerve receptors in the estranged body part are still anticipating receiving signals from a ligand that’s been magically removed. In a typical splinching, both Hermione’s shoulder and disconnected arm would be in distress, the lines of communication still open, searching for each other and readily able to be magically bonded together again. Think live wires that just need to be sautered back together.”

Harry, Ginny, and George nodded in assent. Fred scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hands. It was 11 am, but they had all shown up at 8, right when visitors hours had begun for the day. George had practically forced him into bed last night at a decent hour, but Fred slept extremely poorly. The only thing in his stomach for the last twenty four hours was exorbitant amounts of black coffee, just the thought of food turned his stomach. All in all, the twin felt both physically and psychologically sick with guilt and worry.

“But this isn’t a normal splinching.” Fred intoned darkly, cutting off the Mediwitches rambling.

“It is not.” She agreed. “Hermione deliberately spinched herself with the full intent of permanently severing the limb, so these lines of communication were severed, and then terminated.”

“So she capped the live wires.” Harry guessed, more familiar with the muggle analogy than the rest of them. “So now you’ve got to scrape off the electrical tape on both ends so they’re live again, and then sauter the wires back together.”

“Exactly.” The healer confirmed. “In theory at least. But in practice, like we’ve been saying, it’s extremely complicated. We need to, er, ‘scrap off the electrical tape’, if you will, on three separate muscle groups in the shoulder, ensure the shoulder’s synovial joint is fully operational, all of the neural pathways in the parasympathetic system are restored for wrist, finger, elbow and overall hand movement, the epidermis is knit back together, all of the blood vessels are connected and functional again…”

Ginny and Fred wore identical looks of concentration and concern, cataloging the mediwitch’s exclamation away and comparing it to any relevant information they may have gleaned in pre-healer lectures. George and Harry, at a much greater disadvantage, were growing restless.

“So when can we take her home?” Harry intervened, his brow furrowed. The mediwitch took the second interruption of the day in stride.

“Most of the heavy lifting and transfiguration is done, the arm is physically reattached, she’ll just need to be on a regiment of some highly involved potions for the next week and substantial pain medication -” Harry wordlessly raised his eyebrows, willing her to get to the point.

“Right,” she said quickly, catching sight of the wizard. “Normally we’d keep someone in her condition for the remainder of the treatment, most likely another week, but seeing as we’d be releasing her into the custody of two junior healers…” she cocked her head to the side, regarding Fred and Ginny. “Have you both completed courses covering bedside and vital monitoring, basic healer potion administration and interactions, and pain management?” They both gave identical enthusiastic nods. “Fine then.” The witch made a note on her clipboard. “She’s sleeping now after the final procedure this morning, but provided you can supply transcripts validating your qualifications, I can have her released tonight.” The group simultaneously seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh, and she’ll have to return in two weeks time.” The mediwitch added hastily. “Although the damage caused was self-inflicted, we’ve determined she’s not a danger to herself in the absence of a substantial PTSD trigger. However, once she’s feeling better, we’ve recommended her for outpatient trauma therapy.”

The next few hours passed in a blur, albeit a better one than the waiting room hell they’d experienced yesterday. George coaxed Fred to eat half a sandwich he’d brought back from the cafeteria, and he was even able to rest his head against the side of the wall from his place in a cheap waiting room chair and close his eyes for an hour or so.

An hour before Hermione’s release, Ginny apparated to her apartment to fetch her a change of clothes she could return home in, and George took it upon himself to return to the castle to request copies of Fred and Ginny’s transcripts. Fred was kept busy reading and rereading an extensive potion list of Hermione’s prescriptions and their administration instructions and side effect cautions one of the nurses had supplied him with, finally relieved that he’d be able to do something productive soon. At the bottom was the floo address of the pharmaceutical department of the hospital he could frequent for refills of the more sensitive potions. It was all going to be alright. He could do this.

“One more thing, sweetie.” A younger mediwitch with pink hair who had given him the instructions had returned, breezing around the corner and cracking her gum distractedly. “I just need the signature of a family member or next of kin to authorize Hermione’s release.”

Fred's head snapped up to Harry, who met his glance with equally wide eyes. They both knew very well Hermione’s parents had never recovered their memories.

Harry turned to the younger medwitch, sitting up straighter in his chair like he was bracing for an argument. “Her parents are dead...” He began slowly, obviously torn deciding which direction to go next.

“I’m her fiancé.” The words seem to burst from Fred on their own accord, his tone low and protective. “I’m sure my signature would be fine?”

“Yessir.” The witch was completely oblivious to the tension in the room, absorbed in flipping through the documents on her clipboard to find the right one. “Right there on the line.” She shook the right paper free and handed him a pen.

Fred felt his ears burning and refused to look at Harry as he signed the document, feeling the other wizards gaze upon him. Once the witch left Harry was still surveying him with an odd look on his face.

“What?” Fred snapped, slouching back into his chair. “It’s not like you had a better idea.”

“It’s not that.” Fred wished he’d stop looking at him like that.

“What then?” Harry shrugged, finally turning his attention to the book in his lap.

“Dunno. Just...I could see that. Would actually kind of make sense.”

A warm feeling gathers in Fred’s chest at Harry’s words, and it takes everything in him to tamper it down. Hermione needed to marry someone worthy of her, and if the recent past events had shown him anything, it was that he wouldn’t deserve her in a million years.

~*~

Hermione blinks her eyes open to a blurry mess. Shapes and colors swim across her vision and she feels like she’s moving. The motion makes her nauseous, and she closes her eyes again, focused only on breathing. Eventually the motion stops and bright light presses against her eyelids. She harazards another peek to see a wash of green before she snaps her eyes shut again, groaning.

She thinks someone’s bending down next to her, and then strong, thick arms are wrapping around her body and lifting her up. She’s too foggy to feel any panic, per se, but her stomach rolls and her breaths become shallower. Then the person cradles her to their chest and she smells familiar pine deodorant, a trace of gunpowder, and a uniquely sweet scent that is so distinctly him, and everything in her relaxes.

 _“Fred.”_ She breaths into his shirt, and is rewarded by a soft: ‘right here, Princess.’

Then they’re stepping through the green flames and everything goes dark.

~*~

The next time she opens her eyes, it’s different.

For one thing, there’s a lovely, fuzzy warmth settling over her body like she’s had just enough butterbeer. For another, she’s in bed...and it’s not her bed.

A few more seconds of blinking around in the extremely low light and attempting to gather her wits alerts her to three more puzzling revelations.

Her bad arm is swathed in a ridiculous amount of gaze and fastened to her side, she can both hear and smell the ocean, and somebody is asleep in the chair to her left.

“Celcia?” A feeling of relief bleeds through her, only to contort into confusion as the figure shifts and a stray ray of moonlight slanting through the blinds of a far window illuminates a swath of red hair.

“Hermione?” Fred’s voice is wrecked, and within two seconds he transitions from groggy to panicked. “Are you okay? Do you know who I am?”

The sudden questions derail her more than waking up in a dark, strange room, and she opens her mouth to berate him for not being Celcia and asking her weird questions, but all that comes out is:

“We’re not at the beach, are we?”

Fred’s mouth lilts up slightly and the burning in his brown eyes seem to dim into relief.

“No,” He concedes. “We’re not.” Then, “ I can stop it, if you’d like.” She gives her a head a shake.

“Like it.” She murmurs, taking another deep breath of enchanted salt air and sagging deeper into the bed.

That’s when she realizes there’s about four pillows stacked behind her so she’s almost sitting up, and the arm bundled to her side twinges as she reclines. Hermione cocks her head to the side, an odd feeling starting to seep through her relaxed, tingly stupor. There’s a ringing in her head and a feeling there’s a fairly obvious puzzle here if she’d just sort the pieces…

“What happened?” Everything feels heavy, and the words slur coming out. She’s expecting to be mocked for falling down a flight of stairs, or maybe she’s sick, she really doesn't feel good after all…

“What’s the last thing you remember?” She frowns at this.

“Last…?” And then everything comes rushing back. The prank war. The dragon. Bellatrix. Slowly, she turns and reevaluates her right arm. Her heart sinks. “Oh fuck, Fred, are you okay?”

The look Fred levels her with would be hilarious in any other circumstance.

“Am...I…? _Are you bloody joking?_ ” He brings up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in such a Percy-like fashion she finds herself choking on a sudden, inexplicable, half drug induced, fit of giggles. This only seems to spur on his exasperation.

“No no no.” Her laughs sputter to a stop as he drops his hand from his face and just _stares_ at her. With a jolt she realizes his eyes are wet. “You do not get to ask if I’m okay right now - like - like _my_ feelings are the priority -” His eyes are seconds from spilling over and without thinking she reaches with her good arm to gather him to her. “- you absolutely do not - I don’t deserve -” To her relief he takes it, clumsily landing at her bedside and completely closing the gap between them. “- fucking fucking _fucking_ hell Hermione -” He puts his head on her chest, his hand still gripping hers like a vice, and they stay like that until both their breathing’s evened out.

“Thought I might have scared you, is all.” Hermione offers finally, her voice still trembling slightly.

Fred finally lifts his head from her chest, and uses his other hand to smooth the damp hair from her forehead. She feels herself melt at his touch and pulls in another breath of salt air, trying desperately to get her bearings.

“I’m so sorry about the dragon.” He murmurs finally, expression dark. “It was never supposed to get out of hand like that.” His face twists again and he adverts it suddenly. It’s a few seconds before he regains his composure. “I’ll find some way to make it up to you-”

“Fred, it was an accident -”

“Still, I will though.” She decides, peering into his face, more vulnerable than she’d ever seen it, to drop the matter - has a feeling that trying to tell him she doesn’t blame him right now will just throw gasoline on a fire.

“Okay.” The word is soft in the quiet room, and she punctuates it by giving his hand a squeeze.

They’re spared from having to painfully, unnaturally, change the conversation to avoid the elephant in the room that neither wants to address anymore, when the bedroom door bursts open and Ginny barges in.

“Oh thank god!” The witch screeches, hurrying to the bed. She looks seconds away from berating Hermione for scaring them all, when she seems to think better of it and snaps her mouth closed. “Glad to see you’re awake.” Ginny manages instead, flashing a watery smile.

“Me too.” Hermione responds weakly.

“Do you want anything to eat?” The younger witch’s eyes flicker over her appearance worriedly. Hermione almost laughs at Ginny’s lack of subtlety, but it was alright, she assumed she looked ill after everything.

“Um, maybe some -”

“Only plain foods.” Fred intervened suddenly, his brow furrowing. “You’re on some potions that are going to make you nauseous for a few days.” He shot his sister a pointed look and her cheeks flushed.

“I’m going to make toast.” Ginny announced, and ducked out of the room.

Fred moved closer, the hand holding hers tracing circles on her palm soothingly.

“You’re on some stimulants right now.” The older wizard murmured softly. “To bolster your body enough to take the floo back to the castle. They’ll most likely fade by tonight, and you’ll be a little more out of it for a few days, but Ginny and I’ll be watching over you. You’ll feel much better in a week or so.”

Already Hermione was feeling tired again, her eyelids growing heavy. She rolled onto her side and moved her good arm so she could cradle Fred’s hand to her chest.

“That’s okay.” She managed drowsily, her eyes slipping closed. “I trust you.”

Fred managed a bitter smile as she repeated back his words when she had made him potions for the flu all those months ago.

It was a nice sentiment, this notion of her completely trusting him.  
It was too bad it wasn’t true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed this calm before the storm to come...
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! I love your comments so much :))


	17. Not If It's You

The next couple days passed in a blur.

Once the stimulants had worn off, Hermione had predictably wavered between unconsciousness and being absolutely loopy on pain potions the following day. It had been agreed upon that since Harry and Ginny had an extra room in their two-bedroom apartment (they preferred to share), it would be best if Hermione was set up in the spare room. This way, the fragile witch could have some privacy, and a pre-healer was just down the hall in case anything happened during the night.

It was a testament to how much Fred trusted his sister that he didn’t insist on sleeping on Hermione’s floor.

During the day, it went without saying that Ginny and Fred would take on the bulk of the bedside nursing duties due to their qualifications, but the impending doom of finals cemented these assignments even further.

The pre-healer courses, having been peppered with multiple exams throughout the semester, were requiring the students to participate in two weeks of field work in lieu of finals so that they could begin accumulating clinical experience hours. This meant that Fred and Ginny’s schedules were entirely more lenient than their friends. Harry had already been frequenting study groups with his Auror classmates a couple nights a week, and George began returning home from Lee’s at 2 am and icing his dominant hand, the tendons and joints sore from practicing wand movements for his upper level transfiguration courses.

In general, it all went a lot smoother than any of them were anticipating.

Hermione could be roused to swallow her potions on time and coaxed to eat and drink less than they’d like, but more than they’d hoped. Ginny helped her bathe the first few nights, and Fred became truly fantastic at reading books out loud.

(He knew this to be true because he was always rewarded with a sleepy smile when he started giving the characters voices. Her favorite so far was the voice of a main character’s twelve year old son that Fred decided should sound like an old man. This was exceedingly amusing when he had had to read a passage in which the twelve year old was arguing about bedtime in a voice that sounded an awful lot like Dumbledore.)

  
George, for his part, eventually took a step back from hovering so much after it became clear Fred was no longer in danger of having a guilt-provoked panic attack, or folding under the pressure of caring for a sick loved one. If anything, the reverse had happened. Finally with something helpful and productive to do, Fred’s head felt clearer and his soul lighter than it had in a long time.

By the end of the third day, Hermione finally appeared more alert and was able to stay awake for longer periods of time. Ginny had even taken her outside to sit in the sun for half an hour.

Harry in particular was comforted by the apparent improvements, but Fred had been dissecting her prescription list, dug up the ingredients in the various potions, and compared them to his textbooks, and was less optimistic.

“The blood vessels were obviously the first to be repaired.” Fred sighed over the top of his notes that evening. Harry, Ginny, Luna, Neville, George and himself were lounging about in his sister’s living room, sipping butterbeer and making half-hearted attempts at a card game. Hermione was asleep in her temporary room down the hall.

“Oh, of course, obviously.” Harry sniped. Sarcastic and snappish retorts were becoming an increasingly regular occurrence from him whenever there was too much negative talk about Hermione’s condition. It was an unspoken agreement amongst them all to give him a pass. Fred in particular was nothing but patient.

“She was discharged once the arm was reattached, yeah?” He probed gently. “Living tissue and muscle require oxygenated blood first and foremost to sustain them, so repairing the blood vessels was the first priority. If I’m right about this regiment, and I am, then that system has just finished healing.”

“Great, then what’s the problem?” The dark haired wizard asked forcefully.

“Nervous system is next.” Fred replied softly, wincing in spite of himself. “That’s the most complex one. Reckon the most painful too.” There was a beat of silence as they all digested this information. Harry let out a hollow laugh.

“For fuck’s sake.” The Chosen One downed the rest of the butterbeer, slammed the bottle down on the coffee table and stormed out of the seating area toward his bedroom. Ginny rose calmly and padded after him down the hall.

The rest of the students watched them go with wide eyes. Neville indiscreetly checked his watch, fidgeting slightly. Fred felt his chest constrict as he stared at Harry’s vacant spot, the normally composed wizard’s outburst oddly startling him. A blanket of silence punctuated their departure.

“We all thought she was going to die.” Luna’s voice suddenly broke across the room, as melodic and sweet as ever. The group stiffened uncomfortably.

“Well, no.” Huffed George, fiddling his own butterbeer like he was seconds away from downing the whole thing as well. “Sure we were scared after the dragon thing but none of us actually thought -”

“At shell cottage.” Luna interrupted, undeterred. “We buried Dobby, you see. And then that night we thought we might have to bury her too.”

Fred felt as if someone had hit him over the head with a ton of bricks. How had he not known that, too? Why hadn’t anyone told him any of this shit? Why hadn’t _she_ -

“I think that’s why it’s so hard for him, right now.” Luna gestured with a tilt of her head toward Harry’s bedroom. “It was bad enough the first time around.”

Nobody tried salvaging any sort of conversation after that, and it wasn’t much later they all went to bed.

~*~

“You’re going to kill me.”

Fred blinked down at Ginny, his head still muddled with remnants of sleep.

“Whatcha do?” He slurred, pushing past his sister in the doorway and moving further into her apartment in search of coffee. While her words were alarming, she wasn’t overly upset or panicking, so he judged that whatever she was on about, Hermione was okay.

“It’s about Hermione.”

“WHAT?!”

  
His judgement was shot to hell, apparently.

“Shhh!” Ginny hissed, almost equally as loud. “Shut up! Everyone’s still sleeping!”

“Then what the -?”

“I don’t think I can help out anymore.” The words poured from his sister in a rush. Fred snapped his mouth shut and Ginny’s cheeks colored. “I know, I know, I’m the absolute fucking worst but I…” Her words got progressively quieter until the last few were an inaudible mumble.

“What?” Fred really needed that coffee. Ginny took a steading breath, glancing away.

“The Harpies called. I’m done red-shirting, they officially want me. I need to go down this weekend to sign and have an orientation.”

There was a surprised squeak as Fred pulled his sister into a hug.

“That’s fucking fantastic, Gin.” He grinned after he released her. “And about damn time, you’re bloody amazing.” For the first time, Ginny managed a tentative smile.

“You’re not mad? Because that means I have to leave while she’s still sick -”

“You were around for most of it, she’s almost better -”

“But this part is going to be the hardest -”

“Hey.” Fred interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’re okay. George has been saying he could help out a tad more and I think at this point I know more about her medications than her actual Healers do. We’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” Ginny said, but the tension in her shoulders remained. Her eyes flickered toward the bedrooms. “You’re going to have to relocate Hermione, she can’t stay here. Not with just Harry how he is right now…”

“I know.” Fred replied gently. “Georgie and I will bring her to ours -”

“I don’t think she’s ready for -”

“Of course, I’ll be on the couch.” Ginny flashed him a sad smile.

“I’m sorry you have to go through this with her. I can’t imagine how hard it is.”

Fred’s hands stilled over the coffee pot he had finally located. A sudden lump lodged itself in his throat and he took a couple seconds to breath.

“I’m reading her a lot of books lately.” He finally managed, wincing at how rough his voice sounded, even to his own ears. Ginny cocked her head to the side, clearly lost. He cleared his throat. “There’s this one passage that came up the other day, that I um, that I really like.”

He was sure that if this was a different time, a different circumstance, Ginny would be mercilessly mocking him about how unbelievably un-Weasley-Twin-esc it was for him to be quoting any book in any way that wasn’t making fun of it. Oh well.

“There were, well there were two characters, see? And one of them... one is saying he’ll take care of the other. And then the other one tells him that it’s rotten work.”

He gives Ginny an embarrassed half-smile.

“But the first one says: ‘It’s not to me. Not if it’s you.’”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments! Sorry I've been gone for so long, to make it up to you expect a flurry of updates in the next few days! I know I keep hinting at shit to come and then it doesn't I'm sorry its coming for real next chapter I just really needed one more set-up piece. You'll see I promise.


	18. A Tale of Three Brothers

To everyone’s immense relief, Hermione continued to do well in the days after Ginny’s departure. She spent the next two days in a state of half-consciousness, but appeared more at ease once she was moved into Fred’s familiar bed.

He’d gotten into the habit of lying with her when he read out loud, or taking a short nap with her and rubbing her back, but without the witch being fully cognizant and able to consent, he always made his way back to his living room couch at night.

Fred didn’t mind. It was a comfortable couch.

Despite the growing complexity of her regiment, Fred and George managed quite well. Fred had started to floo back to St. Mungos in the mornings to pick up new, sensitive elixirs that needed to be stored at a specific temperature and humidity right up until administration, and George began giving Hermione her more basic remedies and watching her in the interim between treatments. This setup allowed Fred to nip out and have a break every few hours, for which he was extremely thankful.

On the evening of day three post-Ginny, Fred had taken up a swift jog back to the castle from Hogsmead after one of these breaks. A cup of steaming coca had gone cold in his hand, but he was too preoccupied with rushing back to the apartment in time to relieve George to cast a warming spell on it. His twin had been griping about what a nightmare Animation Charm Integration Theory had been for weeks, and Fred didn’t want to be the reason he was late to one of the TA’s last Office Hours of the semester.

Finally arriving at his apartment, Fred pulled the glove off of his free hand with his teeth, laid his bare hand on the dark wood so that the door swung open, and hollered a: “I’mmf baach!” around the mitten in his mouth when a redhead emerged from his bedroom. Fred almost choked on the glove.

_“Ron?”_

His younger brother’s head snapped up, meeting Fred’s gaze like a deer in the headlights.

“Hey.” Ron swallowed thickly, his cheeks flushing. “Er, sorry. Meant to leave before you came back.”

“Before I came-?” It was that moment that George emerged from the bathroom, his carefree expression devolving into a wince when he caught sight of the standoff in the entranceway.

 _Traitor._ Fred thought dully. He set down the cup and shucked off his traveling cloak.

“She’ll be off her meds and properly awake tomorrow, you should have come then.” He muttered. Ron shrugged.

“Didn’t really want to talk to her.” Fred almost missed the hook on the coat stand.

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” Again, Ron shrugged. Fred fleetingly thought about chucking his cold cocoa at his head.

“Betcha she doesn’t want to talk to me either.” The younger wizard added, like he was being helpful. George, now in the kitchen and taking Hermione’s final potion of the day out of the fridge, briefly stopped pretending that he wasn’t eavesdropping and shot Ron a disgusted look.

“Then what are you doing here?” Fred bit out. Ron’s gaze dropped to the floor, brow furrowed, and was quiet.

George took this opportunity to gently close the fridge door and excuse himself to Hermione’s room. After a few moments Fred was just about to tell Ron to forget it and fuck off so he could relieve George and his twin could go see his TA, when Ron blew out a breath.

“I wasn’t...I…” Ron finally raised his eyes from the floor, the tips of his ears burning red. “It wasn’t great, all right? Everyone knows that. It wasn’t great, and I wasn’t bloody great, even though I tried.” His hands balled into fists at his sides. “I did try, you know. I did...in the beginning at least.”  
He looks at Fred like he expects him to have a response, but all he can do is gape wordlessly. Ron lets out a huff.

“Anyway, it was horrible alright? That night at Shell Cottage was a fucking nightmare.” His mouth twists. “I didn’t love her. Thought I might have, once. But I didn’t, and I especially didn’t love her like you love her. But that night at Shell? It was still the worst night of my life.”

Fred just barely manages to step out of the way as Ron moves to collect his cloak. For the second time that week, he feels as if someone has clobbered him over the head.

“Like I said.” Ron mumbles, giving Fred a resigned look as he pulled the apartment door open. “I didn’t want to talk to her. Just needed to see her, I guess.”

The door closes softly behind him, and Fred sinks into the nearest armchair. He takes a swing of cold cocoa. His head hurts. George’s panicked call from Hermione’s room almost comes as a welcome reprieve.

“Hey, what is it? What’s going on?”

It turned out Hermione’s temperature had abruptly spiked alarmingly high after she’d finished taking her last potion, and a distraught George hadn’t been able to find ‘fever’ listed as one of the predicted side effects in the prescription.

Fred had instantly compartmentalized his discussion with Ron and filed it away, comfortably transitioning into Healer-mode. Within a matter of minutes he’d laid out the ingredients lists of the last three potions Hermione had taken, searched them for known malignant interactions, and drafted up a few equations that took into account the time between each potion administration and the quantities and half-life's of ingredients that, if combined, could cause fevers.

“Got it.” Fred sprang up from his desk and took off toward their medicine cabinet in the bathroom. “She’s going to be okay.” He called over his shoulder. “Last potion was given a half hour too early, the white oak bark hadn’t been completely absorbed which caused a reaction when the orris-root powder was introduced.”

After a few seconds of rummaging, Fred finally located a vial of catnip and elderberry supplements to treat the fever, and ran a washcloth under cool water for good measure. He returned to the bedroom to find a stricken George frozen at the foot of the bed.

“Oi, Mate.” Fred squeezed his twins shoulder bracingly. “Not your fault, you wouldn’t have known. Now help me sit her up.”

George heaved a shaky breath and wordlessly helped him carefully maneuver a barely-conscious Hermione upright, stacking a few pillows behind her. With a few sweet words, Fred was able to coax his girlfriend into taking the supplements, and soothed her back down, laying the cold cloth on her burning forehead. George attempted to collect himself, shuffling backwards and bumping into Fred’s desk.

“I knew you were in Healer classes, but Merlin.” George muttered softly. Fred looked up to see his twin peering at his discarded notes and timeline calculations in something sort of like awe.

Feeling Fred’s gaze upon him, George also looked up, regarding his brother with a strange look in his eye.

For most of their lives, Fred and George had operated with the same level of innate intelligence, pulling from almost identical knowledge bases. Even their maturity levels were nearly interchangeable. 

And then there’d been a war, and he’d almost died, and everything began to unravel.

Fred had become the broken twin. He felt it, and he knew George did too - even though George would probably use a nicer word to describe it.

But in truth, it had been George keeping the shop afloat after the war. George who didn’t have stomach aches or anxiety attacks and had had to learn how to be there for someone who did. George who was more than happy to live out a life filled only with pranks and jokes and laughter. George who had taken the lead with their prank war inventions because he was the one in the advanced magic classes.

That same George was suddenly looking between Fred and his healer notes with a sort of wonder in his eyes.

Neither twin said anything, and George finally left for Office Hours a beat later, but both felt something in their dynamic shift and then settle into a different, albeit more balanced, place.

Fred spent the rest of the evening watching over Hermione, feeling a lightness he hadn’t in a while.

The next morning, her regiment finally finished, Hermione properly woke up.

And everything went to hell.


	19. Like Ships In The Night

Logically, she knew it was a team effort  
Logically, she knew Ginny had been there for most of it  
And honestly, if Ginny had been there when she’d woken up, it probably would have been fine.

But instead, it was just Fred, and he’d even given her his bed, and she wanted to die.

And so the sleepy, slow morning that was probably supposed to be full of tender words and thankful gestures had devolved into scrambling to check the date on the calendar, scrambling to pack her things, and scrambling out the apartment door with a: “Thank you so much, so sorry I splinched my arm off my body, catch ya later!”

Predictably, she did not catch him later.

Another version of reality where maybe things could have been fine would be one in which she had a monstrous amount of studying to do for finals - she _did_ sleep through a whole week, after all. Really, how could she be expected to spend any time with Fred? There was a gargantuan game of catch-up to be had!

Unfortunately, this did not turn out to be the case. Much to Hermione’s dismay, all of her professors graciously excused her from exams on account of the accident, and simply informed her she had officially passed. Those bastards.

It didn’t work the other way around, either. Fred had no finals, and he didn’t leave for clinical rotations for another couple days. So instead, without any veil to hide behind, she was simply outed for what she was:  
The Worst ™

To be fair, it wasn’t as if she wasn’t thankful that he had taken care of her. She wasn’t that heartless.  
She was just mortified.  
And scared.

Because people were not bottomless fountains of giving. They weren’t. Sometimes they put on a good show. Sometimes good enough that they’d even convinced themselves. But it was always too good to be true. People weren’t bottomless fountains, they were shallow wells - you never knew when they were a few drops away from running dry.

And if the Brightest Witch of Her Age knew anything, it was how goddamn _bad_ it hurt when you watched the well run dry.

Dry meant he stopped seeing her as a partner but an annoyance.  
Dry meant watching someone once so warm go cold.  
Dry meant stripping back the layers, and saying:

 _these, these are the bad parts, the heavy parts, the vulnerable parts_ ,

and watching them wince and respond:

_I thought you were better than all that._

Relying on someone meant over-saturation, meant dependency, meant showing them a version of herself that she knew was too much for anyone to handle.

  
That she knew made her unlovable.

So yeah, Fred took care of her. And he was kind, and he was patient, and he did a good fucking job.  
But no matter how much everyone likes to play make-believe, White Knights do not last long outside of fairy tales.

The day with the dragon had finally shown Fred who she truly was - a fucked-up woman with a whole arsenal of baggage and PTSD. Of course he’d have fun for a bit, playing the hero. Who wouldn’t? But picking up pieces isn’t glamorous. Dating someone with issues isn’t glamorous. It was just a matter of time until he found that out. He was probably halfway there already.

And she didn’t have the strength to stick around and watch Fred Weasley’s well run dry.

So Hermione embraced being The Worst ™ , barricaded herself in her apartment, and dispelled any patronuses he sent over before the silver Magpies even got the chance to speak.

On the morning of her third day hunkered down in Fort Granger, Luna caught Hermione in the kitchen, wilted over a skillet of runny eggs that she was poking half-halfheartedly with a spatula.

“Something came for you.” The blonde witch mentioned airily. Hermione froze over the stove.

“From Harry or Ginny, yeah?” She asked hopefully. Luna shrugged, inspecting the oranges in the bowl of fruit on the counter.

“Probably not.” Her orange finally selected, Luna placed it in her bag and removed what appeared to be a shining turquoise egg, about as large as a grapefruit. “It was left outside the door. Strangest thing.”

The egg clinked gently as she set it down on the counter top, and it wasn’t long after that Luna left for the library. Despite every fiber in her being urging her to leave it alone, Hermione couldn’t help but reach for the egg after Luna had gone, turning it over thoughtfully in her hand.

Upon further inspection, the egg vaguely resembled the one Harry had received as a clue in the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione winced at the thought. The tournament felt like it happened three lifetimes ago.

Regardless, the resemblance cued her in on how the mechanism worked, and so with a great breath (and against her better judgement) Hermione unclasped the top of the egg.

Instead of screeching, her apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of waves crashing on a shoreline. Salt air rushed into her nose, her mouth, her heart, and then there was the faint sound of seagulls crying and she almost lost it.

It was the same charm he’d used when she had first woken up in Ginny’s room, the only night she was semi-cognizant because of the stimulants. He’d remembered her brief stories about Celcia’s seaside cottage and spelled the illusion to calm her down.

And now he’d figured out how to encapsulate that spell into a gift.  
She couldn’t even imagine how much work that must have taken.

She could almost see how shallow his well was becoming.

With a half-choked sob, Hermione snapped the egg closed. The sensations faded almost instantly, the sounds of waves and gulls, tampering into nothingness. Another sob slipped through until she just couldn’t hold them back anymore.

And so Hermione began to cry, trying very hard not to notice the sea salt air quickly dissipating into the stench of burning eggs.

~*~

“Change them back.”

Fred jolted awake so violently last night’s cold coffee split across his desk.

“Bloody hell, mate.” He muttered, cleaning the mess with a wave of one hand and massaging his temple with the other. “What was that for?”

“I said, change them back.”

Fred begrudgingly turned his attention toward the doorway of his bedroom to find an extremely agitated George.

“What the fuck are you on about?” He asked, voice still rough with sleep. In answer, his twin all but hurled a mass of parchment at him. The documents landed with a slap on his desktop.

“Thanks for letting me know my syllabuses came in for next semester.” Fred drawled, shoving the lot of them into an open desk drawer. “Now could you kindly bugger off?”

“Those aren’t Healer classes.” George responded tightly.

“No shit, sherlock.” Maybe if Fred ignored him and got in bed, George would leave him alone.

“What do you mean, no shit?!” George roared, striding into the room. Fred stopped, half risen from his chair, and cast a desolate look at his bed. So much for that idea.

“I mean I’ve got some catch-up to do, haven’t I?” Fred quipped, deciding to just plaster on a fake smile. “I’ll be a semester behind you which isn’t ideal, of course, but hey I’ll be able to use your old notes and quizzes, so it’s not all bad.”

“You’re going to use my…?” His twin gaped at him for a second, eyes blazing, before his mouth pressed into a thin line. “No you’re fucking not.” George jabbed a finger at the drawer where Fred had shoved the syllabuses. “You’re going to drop those courses and you’re going to change your schedule back.”

“Like hell I am.” Fred abruptly abandoned his carefree demeanor at George’s harsh words, completely changing tactics. “What’s the point? I’m working with you at the shop after we graduate. I don’t need to know any of that shit.”

“Fred.” He didn’t think he’d ever seen George so angry. “You’re _good_ at ‘that shit’. And it makes you happy - like actually _happy_. I’m not letting you throw that away -”

“Good thing you’re not in charge of me, then.” Fred all but growled. “Now seriously, get out.”

George lingered for a few seconds longer before turning on his heel. Fred heard the apartment door slam not long after. With his brother finally gone, Fred sank to the floor and finally allowed his icy exterior to thaw. His face crumpled.

She had just left. He couldn’t believe she’d just left.

The worst part was he couldn’t even fucking blame her.

If someone had set a dragon on him and triggered a whole traumatic episode that had left him mutilated, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with them either.

He was so tired of fucking up.

His arrogance and negligence injured George’s back and Hermione’s arm, he narrowly escaped death and instead of being happy, he turned into an emotional drain on his brother, and then he’d snuck off to throw away everything they’d built and become a healer.

Fred was done with his own shit.  
No more.

So he’d dropped the healer courses. He’d sent her an ‘I’m sorry’ gift. He was drowning in guilt and trying desperately to find productive outlets for it. And that would have been hard enough if that was all there was to the story, wouldn’t it? That would have been painful, and complicated enough. But of course there was more.

Because he had finally found out that Hermione had almost died at Shell Cottage.  
And then she dated him for eight months.

_And never fucking told him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments, please let me know your thoughts! :)


	20. Give Me Love

Her apartment is too small.

Hermione sits on her kitchen floor, knees pulled up to her chest and a steaming mug of tea next to her on the tile. She wishes she still had Crookshanks. Wishes she had something warm and alive to pull onto her lap and hold.

Instead, she knocks her head back against the cabinets and tries to breath. Lately the air around her has felt as viscous as soup, and she can never seem to pull enough of it into her lungs.

Her apartment is too small.

On the bright side, Hermione had successfully hidden herself away for the entire week leading up to Fred’s departure.  
And successfully evaded all of the patronuses he’d sent.  
And successfully dropped the egg in her bag and left it alone.

She’d finally come to the conclusion that breaking up with Fred wasn’t the only way out of this. (albeit this decision had come about while she was slightly drunk at 2 am, but she hadn’t changed her mind once she sobered up so that was something). Instead of a breakup, she decided it was going to be like the night he’d caught her in a nightmare: they’d take some space for a bit, she’d make sure he’d never see her so vulnerable again, they’d let sleeping dogs lie, and they’d move the fuck on.

For this to work, she just had to stay in her apartment until he left for clinicals. When he returned, enough time would have gone by that they could start over. It was going to be fine, he was leaving tomorrow, it was all going according to plan, it was all good..

Well, all except that Hermione wasn’t sure could make it through one more night trapped alone with her thoughts in this forsaken apartment.

The bags under her eyes had become so prominent it was like they were imprinted into her skin, she was averaging maybe 700 calories a day, and her _arm_ -

Her fucking arm.

The wounds from the spliching had scared over a soft pink, but were still extremely painful to the touch in the areas where the nerves still worked. Her range of motion left much to be desired, and a sizable portion of her muscle mass had already eroded away.

Magic sucked. Fuck magic. All of the spells and potions in the world and she was still in a sling. Would most likely need a hefty physical therapy regiment. Was going to absolutely pitch herself off of the astronomy tower if it turned out, after everything she had done to learn how, she’d lost the ability to play Quidditch.  
Fuck magic.

And _fuck_ this small-ass apartment.

As if in a daze, Hermione lurched to her feet, wobbling slightly as dark spots erupted across her vision. She waited patiently for them to fade, and then wandered over to her door. Numbly, she threaded her good arm through her traveling cloak sleeve, and slung her bag over her shoulder.

It wasn’t until she had made her way to the ground floor of the castle that she realized where she was headed.  
This brought on the belated discovery that she hadn’t brought a swimsuit, which in turn was followed up by the comforting realization that she didn’t give a shit. 

The frigid December air bit into the witch’s skin the second she stepped outside. A sudden gust of wind lashed her hair back and grazed the exposed skin on her face like a knife.

Hermione smiled.

Her calf muscles and hamstrings ached from extended disuse as she stalked across the castle grounds, the snow-encrusted grass crunching under her boots. Above her, the sun was just beginning its descent, the bluebird sky slowly succumbing to pink. Hermione drew in a deep breath of fresh air easily, a satisfied smile pulling at her lips at her success. Her head was already beginning to clear.

Eventually, the witch crested the last hill in her trek, and was rewarded by the dark glimmer of the lake, shrouded in a shadow cast by the castle in the slanted sun.

_Finally._

And maybe it was because it was relatively dark, or because her mind was buzzing, or because it really, truly, was the last thing she expected to see, but she almost missed the silhouette of a man until she was nearly on top of him.

“I was really fucking hoping I wouldn’t find you here.”

Hermione freezes, her heart plummeting into her stomach. Even if she hadn’t recognized him from the back, there’s no mistaking the voice.

Despite calling out to her, Fred doesn’t turn to greet his girlfriend. Instead, he stays facing the lake, and absentmindedly skips a rock.

Hermione feels like the gears turning in her head have rusted over. It just doesn't compute that he’s _here._ How did this happen? This is completely going against the plan! She should just leave…

But then she thinks of her stifling apartment, and her resolve strengthens. Screw him and whatever he thinks he’s doing, she came here to swim.

Without comment, Hermione drops her bag with a dull thud on the sand, her traveling cloak swiftly joining it. Then she kicks off her boots, rolls her shoulders back, and walks fully clothed toward the water’s edge.

She doesn’t expect the bolt of magic that sends her flying into the dune grass.

Hermione pushes herself up coughing, the sand sticking to the palm of her hand. Fred has slightly cocked his head to the side, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t even try. You’re not getting in that water.” He says, his voice carrying a slight edge. Hermione’s face flushes a deep red.

“Yeah, right.” Pushing off the ground, she makes her way toward the waves again. Fred fires another spell at her, but she’s ready for it this time, and blocks it easily.

“Hermione, look at you goddamn arm.” Fred snarls when his spell falls flat. “How the hell do you expect to swim with that?”

“I’ll wade in.” Hermione snaps.

“The shallowest bit is 10 ft.” Fred retorts.

He’s got his arms crossed. She’s positively scowling.

“How are you even here? What are you doing?”

“I’ve been coming here all week.” The amount of bite in his voice almost takes her by surprise. “I’m _trying_ to make sure you don’t drown.”

Hermione blinks, unable to make any sense of what is going on. So instead of trying, she turns back to the water again.

“Take another step and I swear to Merlin I’m going to hex you.” The older wizard warns, and Hermione grinds her teeth, whipping around.

“Is this all because you feel _bad_?” She asks hotly. “You feel bad for me, or guilty or whatever about the dragon thing and now you’re going to turn into my fairy godmother?” Fred’s eyes narrow dangerously, but she’s suddenly full of adrenaline and can’t stop. “Like you think you have to make up for it or protect me or something now?” She laughs hollowly. “I know this fucking game and I hate how it ends and I don’t want to play it. You shouldn’t feel like you _need_...like you have to _make up for_ …”

“AND WHY NOT?!” Fred suddenly roars, his cry echoing across the lake. “I _hurt_ you. It’s…” Fred chokes back a sob. “Fuck, it’s George’s back all over again. I’m a rash, arrogant piece of shit and I just hurt everyone I care about and -”

“Stop it.” Hermione’s voice cuts through the cold air. “You’re not. And that’s not what this is about.”

“Not what it’s about?” Fred jeers loudly, pivoting from his self-deprecating spiral. “Fine. You want to talk about what this is really about? Then what are you doing here, Hermione?”

“I - _what?”_ Hermione’s scowl deepens considerably as he derails the conversation. “Maybe I just like taking a swim in cold water, is that a crime now?”

“Hermione, Ginny and I were in the same classes.”

“So what?”

“SO -” Fred blows out a breath, visibly attempting to reel in his temper. “So I heard the same lecture about alternative treatments for depression.” Hermione carefully keeps her face neutral and refuses to break eye contact, but inwardly chokes on a sudden wave of shame and humiliation.

“So what?” She repeats, furiously. Fred glares at her for a long moment, gripping the stones in his fists with white knuckles before turning back to the lake.

“So what?” A joyless laugh tumbles out of his throat. Fred flings one of the rocks across the surface of the water. “Oh, where to fucking begin.” He throws another rock.

" _So_ , my girlfriend has nightmares a couple nights a week for months and doesn't tell me.”

_Splash._

“ _So_ , when I DO find out, she won’t talk about them.”

_Splash._

“ _So_ , she’s so secretly depressed I catch her jumping in freezing lakes the mornings of my beater clinics.”

_Splash._

“ _So_ , we talk all the time but she’s got this whole secret life going on I know nothing about.”

_Splash._

“And, oh there’s something I’m forgetting, I don’t know, maybe SHE GETS TORTURED TO THE BRINK OF DEATH AND DOESN’T EVEN TELL ME!”

He throws a fistful of the remaining pebbles and they break the lake’s surface like a violent hailstorm.

Her vision goes red.

“You know what?! _Fuck you, Fred!_ This isn’t about you!”

“No!” The twin bellows without missing a beat. “It’s about _you_! And how goddamn closed off you are!” His mouth twists. “If you’re not able to open up without a pint of firewhisky in you, then I really don’t know what we’re doing here!”

For the first time, hot, boiling tears streak down Hermione’s cheeks as he repeats back her words from just before they started dating. There’s a few wavering seconds where she thinks that’s it, she’s had enough, she’s either going to have to leave or he’s going to see her fall apart, when she’s hit with a second wind of anger. Because who is _he_? Up on his high horse, shouting about her shortcomings, when he’s spiraling almost as bad as she is.

“You’re full of shit.” Fred stumbles like she’s hit him.

“Come again, Princess?” He demands incredulously, her nickname twisted and spit from his mouth like it’s gone sour. Hermione narrows her eyes and kneels down to her discarded knapsack. Plunging her hand inside, she rifles through for a minute or two before her fingers close on something cold and smooth.

“You want to talk about being closed off? What the hell is this?” It’s like she’s landed a blow that fractures a deep crack in Fred’s armor. The storm in his eyes shifts.

“What is - ? I - I thought you’d like it...”

“Like it?” Hermione repeats coldly. “No, I know you, and it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s because you feel _guilty_. You feel guilty for something that was an accident and you feel like you owe me now.” A muscle tics in Fred’s jaw.

“So what if I do? It’s true, isn’t it?!” Hermione barks out a humorless laugh.

“It’s fucking not. That’s not how this works.” She’s so angry she realizes she’s shaking. “As my boyfriend you should respect me, you should treat me well, but you do not _earn_ me. Do you hear that Fred? I am not a _thing_ that you put up on a _pedestal_ and _earn_. I’m a dynamic fucking person and you did not _consciously, vindictively,_ injure me. It was a fucking accident and we should be mature enough to call it what it is and handle it!”

Across from her, Fred’s shaking his head, a tortured look on his face. This only serves to incite her further.

“You don’t think you deserve to be alive, you don’t think you deserve to do what you want with your life, and most of all you don’t think you deserve love. Well, newsflash Weasley, _it doesn't work like that!”_

Hermione turns, and quickly, before she loses her nerve, winds up and throws his gift into the lake.

The sound the egg makes striking the water is so much louder than any of Fred’s rocks.

They stand there, side by side but feet apart, silently watching the ripples pushing outward from where the enchanted orb sank. Hermione’s chest is heaving, her bad arm is stinging, and her face is sticky with dried tears. Fred lowers himself down into a squat, elbows on his knees and fists pressed against his mouth as he watches the water. The sun is beginning to set. Their shadows stretch long across the grass.

“Did that make you feel better?” The twin finally asks, his voice hollow.

“What do you think?” She answers dully.

The wind eventually starts to pick up. The light lavender residue of the sunset deepens into a darker violet. Fred finally lurches to his feet, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He still refuses to look at her.

“I don’t understand why you don’t tell me anything important.” His voice is flat. There’s no more fight left in him. Hermione opens her mouth to conjure some sort of response when she realizes there’s no more fight left in her either.

Instead, she finds herself wanting to answer him. But when she tries fragments of memories, echoes of pain, and flashes of war emerge from the deep crevices of her mind that are absolutely impossible to articulate.

“I can’t, Fred.” As she turns, the older wizard lunges forward, making a grab for her good arm.

“Try.” His voice breaks. “Please.”

“I said I can’t.” She snatches her arm away, and begins to stumble back toward the castle.

“Hermione!” Fred bellows desperately at her back. “If you don’t want to lose me you need to _fucking try_ -!”

But her temples pound, her limbs are heavy, and her head is full of twisted, horrible memories. It’s all too much. She wants him to understand, she does, but words can’t accurately explain what happened, and what it all did to her, and what it _felt_ like…

Hermione doesn't even realize she’s casting an Intentioned magic until it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know I'm sorry!  
> I know it's a lot but hopefully you guys are still enjoying it.  
> Also thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter, I'm glad you enjoy the more raw storytelling bits. (I mean they say write about what you know soooo...)  
> Let me know how you like this chapter, I'm sorry its gotta get worse before it gets better!


	21. This is a Ghost Story

The world explodes with a clap of thunder and a wash of white light.

For a few seconds, Hermione exists in a sort of floating suspension, an odd weightless tingling crawling down her limbs. The initial bang echoes over and over in her head, the residual sound pulsating against her temples.

And then, as suddenly as the strange buoyant sensation began, it ends, and Hermione is abruptly dropped with all the dignity and poise of a rag doll.

As she falls, her arms and legs begin to ache, fatigued by a great, pressing weight. The witch’s stomach lurches like she’s descending in a muggle elevator, and she quickly loses track of time. How long has she been falling? Her thoughts are sluggish, taking far too long to materialize. Was it a few seconds? Ten minutes? Was there ever a time she wasn’t falling?

Then, at long last, with a lurch so aggressive she swears she must have gotten whiplash, everything stills. With a certainty she can’t explain, Hermione knows she’s arrived.

Her back is pressed up against something cool and hard. A nauseating wash of color and texture and light dances on the backs of her eyelids. She blinks once, twice, three times against the vibrant assault, and then it all comes into focus.

Within seconds of surveying her surroundings, the only thing Hermione knows for sure is that somehow, someway, she’s just died.

It’s the only explanation for how she is suddenly laying on the tile in her parent’s old kitchen, staring up at the old, water stained ceiling.  
It’s the only explanation for why the scent of a very particular pancake recipe she'd never successfully recreated curls thick in the air.  
It’s the only explanation for the sudden explosion of her father’s deep belly laugh, and the responding titter from her mother, tinkling like garden chimes.

She’s dead, but it’s okay, because this, surely _this_ , is heaven.

“Hermione! Come down, Honey! You _must_ see what nonsense this buffoon of a Prime Minister is spouting now! A, and I quote, ‘clashing of a warm and cold front is ultimately responsible for the destruction of London’s suspension bridge! Global warming MUST be taken seriously!’ I mean, really, they couldn’t come up with a better cover than that?!”

Hermione’s blood turns to ice.

_No._  
_No no no no…._

Because that suspension bridge was destroyed by Death Eaters in 1996. That suspension bridge was destroyed before they moved Harry out of Private Drive.

Sudden, hot tears leak out of the corners of Hermione’s eyes.  
_You stupid, stupid, Witch._ She thinks, grief pulsing through her veins like a poison. _Of course this isn’t heaven. You’d never be that lucky._

Hermione pushes herself up on her elbows. Her mother is at the stove flipping pancakes. Her father is thumbing through his muggle newspaper. Sunshine is pouring in through the windows closet to the garden.  
And the whole scene was shimmering, oh so slightly, like it was under the spray of a waterfall.

_This is a memory._

She flinches at the bang of a bedroom door upstairs, which is then punctuated by heavy footsteps. She keeps her eyes on her parents, drinking in the way her mother’s tawny brown hair curls in the summer’s humidity. Her eyes trace the creases in her father’s freshly ironed blue button-up, a favorite in his closet of workday attire. She knows without turning that behind her is a seventeen year old Hermione, watching the mundane interactions of her parents from the base of the staircase with an intensity like it was the last time she’d ever see them.

 _I need to get out of here._ Hermione thinks desperately. _There is no fucking way I’m reliving this **again.**_

The witch lurches to her feet, her eyes casting around the pseudo-kitchen floor for her wand in a panic. It’s a few seconds before she’ll admit to herself: no, really, it’s not here. And that means, oh fuck, that means this isn’t a spell gone wrong but an Intentioned Magic. She tries to remember why she’d cast such a thing, but her brain is quickly filling with adrenaline and won’t corporate. She wants to scream.

“Honey! Pancakes!” Her mother chirps, and Hermione’s concentration splinters even further.

 _I couldn't have done this._ She panics. _Why would I...how could I…_

  
Suddenly, fragments of conversation, of old trains of thoughts long departed, crash through her like an actual, tangible tidal wave.

_Hogwarts taught spells and magic like they were finite, like it was possible to learn every incantation and be able to confidently declare that you were done at some point._

_“It’s publishable now, Hermione. Who cares if it’s not the most suited magic for battle? This is big, and it’s brimming with all sorts of different potential!”_

_The pieces could be rearranged, new magic could blossom, if only someone had the patience to remake the puzzle._

_Words can’t accurately explain what happened, and what it all did to her, and what it felt like…_

Hermione begins to shake.  
Because she didn’t manage to create this Intentioned Magic.

Her subconscious did.

Behind her, padded footsteps on carpet get louder and louder until they stop on the kitchen tile. Her mind reeling, her body shaking, Hermione can’t help but raise her gaze to meet her younger doppelgänger, when her breath catches in her chest.

_“Fred?!”_

While brown eyes flicker her way, he makes no other outward indication he’s heard her. His wand is out, gripped tightly in a fist by his side. Her parent’s hardly acknowledge him as he advances further into the kitchen.

“Blueberry or strawberry pancakes, Sweetie?” Her mom asks. Fred’s face, carefully arranged into a void, expressionless mask, breaks at her words. He raises his wand at the back of her mother’s head. His expression crumples into that of terrible, terrible grief.

_“Obliviate.”_

The voice bursting from his mouth is distorted, somehow simultaneously both her’s and his muddled into one.

Her mother gracefully crumples to the floor. She could be sleeping. Her father has thrown down his newspaper, expression wild.

“Mione! Mione!” He shouts, stumbling over to his wife’s fallen form and pulling her body into his lap. “What happened?! What did you _do_ -?!”

 _“Obliviate.”_ Fred-Hermione repeats, the spell punctuated with a harsh sob. Her fathers face falls slack, his eyes glass over.

Fred slumps against a nearby wall, his chest heaving erratically for a few seconds before his face goes hard. He stands back up. Pushes his shoulders back. Takes a deep breath. Raises his chin. Raises his wand.

 _“Your names are Wendell and Monica Wilkins.”_  
The scene becomes fuzzy, shiny. The Fred-Hermione voice becomes fainter.  
_“You have always wanted to go to Australia.”_  
A pounding starts up in Hermione’s head again. She squeezes her eyes shut.  
_“You never had a daughter.”_

  
The scene changes.

~*~

She soon comes to realize that, while he is somehow here, Fred has almost no autonomy over his own body. The best she can puzzle out is that her subconscious must have taken the general concept of a pensive and contorted it into a completely immersive experience.

Over and over again, they are whisked into different scenes.  
Tucked away in Ginny’s room at two am, silently sobbing into a wad of blankets, mourning parents that are as good as dead.  
Packing a beaded bag with the fervor of a mad woman. Escaping the wedding. Fighting the Death Eaters at the diner.  
Plotting at Grimmauld place.  
Becoming Bellatrix.  
Escaping Gringotts.  
Camping.  
The horcrux.  
The Forest of Dean.

  
And that would have been hard enough if that was all there was to the story, wouldn’t it? That would have been painful, and complicated enough. But of course there was more.

Because Fred wasn’t just privy to all that had transpired.  
No,  
He was experiencing _every single_ emotion she had.  
_Just_ as she had.

Hermione imagines this must be the closest to synesthesia that she or Fred would ever experience. Except instead of varying shades of color materializing to accompany its partnered sound, it was her emotions, her thoughts, her inner dialogue, blanketing every scene, building out an entirely new dimension to the reality they were experiencing.

Somehow, in the midst of the diner scene and Grimmauld Place, an inarticulable phenomena unfolds for him to understand. How it felt to finally embrace the dawning realization that everything innocent about her had died. To know that she was no longer a kid, but a soldier at war, and that would be her life.

And then the indescribable peace that settled into her soul with the knowledge that she likely wasn’t going to make it out.

In the back of her mind, something is nagging at her that she should be utterly and completely humiliated that someone has transgressed so deeply into her brain, but any logical thought quickly slips like water through open fingers. She is simply on the outskirts of every scene, engrossed in watching memories hidden in the recesses of her mind surge forward for the first time she can remember.

Fred says all the things she had said. He cries when she had cried. He acts like she acted. Sometimes his gaze meets hers, intelligent brown eyes blown wide, and then the scene shifts, and there’s a another part to play. Another tragedy to experience. Fred had wanted to know what happened to her, and now he had no choice.

The only difference, of course, is Ron.

She supposes this makes sense - is actually kind of impressed her subconscious had taken that bit into account.

Because Ron, well, Ron was a big part of what had happened.  
And none of the feelings would have transferred right if Fred was confronting his brother.  
So Ron materialized as a grey, blurred, entity.  
But the thoughts, emotions, experiences, surrounding him, those were in sharp focus.

Ron, holding her in Grimmauld Place as she secretly continued to mourn her parents.  
Ron, making sure she remembered to eat.  
Ron, somehow creating snatches of light, happy moments to illuminate a bleak, doomed life.  
Ron, rapidly becoming the only good thing in her day.  
Ron, whispering honeyed promises into her hair, her stomach erupting in a million butterflies, a desperate, passionate adoration of him radiating from her like a fever.  
Ron, holding her while she slept through nightmares filled with loss and reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

Ron, becoming more agitated, more sully, more quiet.  
Ron, falling asleep as she vented, leaving her alone with her nightmares and their fallout.  
Ron, whose eyes were becoming dull.  
Ron, taking a turn with the horcrux.  
Her, so willing to blame dark magic, but eventually wondering how much of a part it played after all.

Then, for the first time, as she and Fred navigate The Forest of Dean, the timeline of her memories lose its rigidity. The story decides it’s better told out of order.

Harry’s screaming his throat raw, telling him to go, just LEAVE then!  
Ron, ripping off the necklace, stalking through the trees.  
Her, well, Fred, high on panic, stumbling after him through the underbrush.

“Stop! Stop! You can’t - _please_ you can’t!”

“Watch me.”

“NO! What - what about me? What about _us_ -”

“I can’t fucking do this anymore! I can’t do any of it anymore - I can’t with _you_ anymore -!”

“Then I’ll change!” The odd Fred-Hermione voices wails, ricocheting off their wards. “I’ll work on it! Tell me what I can do!”

His silence hits like a club to the chest.

  
“Say something.” The memory of Hermione demands. “One way or another you’ve got to say something.” And the words were cold, and her stance was formidable, but she had never bluffed harder in her entire life. Because Ron, her Ron, would never, ever leave her.

  
This was it.  
Together, they were going to get out the other side.  
They had to.   
They were Endgame.  
Nothing could change that.

But Ron didn’t look up.

And he didn’t end up saying anything, either.

But he stepped out of the wards and apparated with a sound like a gunshot,  
And Hermione fell to her knees, hands searching for the blood.

She wasn’t able to move for a long time. 

It was like all of her senses were trying to deliver information that she kept sending back.  
She could see, clear as day, that Ron had gone, but it was like her brain hit a roadblock and couldn’t carry that perception any further. Couldn’t build off of it to make a coherent thought.

She became a broken record. Out of self preservation her brain was skipping over and over again - rejecting what was happening only for her senses to come back and confirm:

He’s gone.  
_That’s not possible._  
He’s gone.  
_That’s not possible._  
He’s gone.  
_That’s._  
_Not._  
_Possible._

Somebody must have reached in and torn out her insides.  
There was a hole  
There was gaping hole in the middle of her body  
She was - had to be -physically, physically, hollowed out.

Never before had Hermione been in this level of emotional pain.   
Later, she would realize she had gone into shock. That if strong enough, the same areas of the brain light up and process mental pain the same way they process physical trauma.

And at that moment, every system in her body was going haywire, convinced it had sustained a life-threatening injury and searching for the damage.

Never before had she known such betrayal, had known that level of emotional pain.

Her brain just could not reconcile that the person it had filed away as “safe”, the person it had rebranded as “family” to replace the role her parents had vacated, the childhood best friend turned lover that was _her **person**_ , had, in the matter of a few seconds, turned her around and sank a knife between the vertebrates in her back.

And oh, how that wound _festered_.

The Forest of Dean scene began to shimmer, and Hermione sucked in a breath as her subconscious' enchantment abandoned, for the first time, the true timeline of events. Instead, it latched on to the thread of Ron’s betrayal, and let it go free.

Her and Fred flashed through multiple scenes, mostly the snippets of time between any action.  
The voids that blossomed every following night when she tried to sleep.  
The voids when she kept watch.  
The voids that rushed in immediately after any conversation’s end.  
The voids that followed her to Celica's, where she was finally able to face them head on.  
The voids free of any outward distraction that left her alone with her thoughts.

It was these voids that made Hermione suspect there must have been something wrong with her, for how angry she got.

The anger was all encompassing, insatiable intrusive thoughts.  
About how _horrible_ he was  
About how _weak_ he was  
How she wished she could kill, yes actually fucking _kill him_  
So maybe he’d know just a sliver of the hurt he’d inflicted upon her.

_How could he_

  
_How could he_

  
_How could he_

  
_How could he_

_Did I deserve it?_

But the thing about anger,  
it’s the secondary emotion to sadness

And what she saw for months and months as the inability to let go, an inability to move on, a glaring character flaw of getting stuck in the same train tracks of thought day in and day out, a fascination on recreating phantom arguments in her head of what she should have said then and what she wished she could say to him now…

It was all just a survival tactic.

Because somewhere deep in her subconscious she must have known that experiencing that caliper of pain for too long was going to be almost un-survivable.  
So she channeled it into the naturally occurring secondary emotion.

Anger.

And it took her awhile to realize that she didn’t suddenly develop anger issues, that she wasn’t an inherently enraged person and broken on some fundamental level.

She had just experienced a hurt of unbelievable proportions, and the only strong enough coping mechanism her brain could come up with was to transform it all into anger.

And it was that anger that fueled her in finishing the horcrux hunt.  
That anger that fueled her during the battle of Hogwarts.  
That anger that kept her getting up every day.

That anger that was slowly driving her to insanity.  
That anger that Celica helped her sit with.  
That anger that finally told her its real name.  
That anger that she finally put down.

But just because she put it down, it didn’t mean the scars on her back had faded.

Fred is staring at her from his place in Celica’s kitchen, his dark eyes swimming with pain. 

  
Then everything begins to slip out of focus. The recreation of Celica’s cottage starts to fade. Hermione's mind is finally clearing.

 _That’s it_. She thinks. _It’s over. He’s seen everything he needs to see. It can be done now._

The landscape contorts and blurs, the ground spins, but the weightlessness feeling doesn’t return. Instead, the spinning continues an oddly long amount of time. Her hair lashes about wildly in a sudden wind. There is a thunderclap, and pain explodes behind her eyelids. She falls to her knees, cradling her head. Something is wrong.

“I’M DONE!” She roars desperately against the gale. Fred, the only other constant in the mess of swirling colors, is yelling her name, breaking free and running toward her. Another bolt of pain like an icepick cracks at her skull. She shrieks, sobs. “STOP! I’M DONE! I’M ALL DONE!”

But it’s a lie.  
Not all of her is.

Because he wanted to know what she had been through. He wanted to know how bad it was.  
And to do that, there was one more thing.

Malfoy Manor erupts around them like a horror movie, like a nightmare.

She’s landed against the far wall, Fred is suddenly bound in Bellatrix’s grasp. Her black hair frizzes wildly. Her robes are all ripped edges and black lace. There’s a knife in her hand. There’s madness in her eyes.

“I’m going to have a conversation with this one!” The Death Eater’s snarl echoes in the high, domed ceilings. “Girl to girl!”

The boys are taken into the cellar.  
Fred is thrown to the ground.

The memory of her fear and the fresh wave of his mingle and saturate the scene. It won’t matter that its only a memory, he will feel every bit of the torture that ensues, just as she did.  
Bellatrix raises her wand.  
Fred closes his eyes.

And then the desperate, guttural thought of: _not him, anyone but him._

The world explodes with a clap of thunder and a wash of white light.

Hermione is launched backward, her neck snapping back painfully, her body skimming across the dune grass. She has the briefest of seconds to look up and see sky, real sky, above her. Darkening from twilight into a wash of stars.

And then she’s rolling across the grass and thinking: _really, what was I doing, it’s much too cold for a swim in the middle of December_ , as her body pitches into the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I think this was the longest chapter I've written for this story   
> Shoutout to SAM_Ophia who hit the nail on the head with her prediction last chapter lol   
> Please let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> (Also we're not at the end yet - but we're getting relatively close. Would you guys be interested in a final author's note at the end that lists all the easter eggs / references / call backs throughout the story, or just leave it open to interpretation? )


	22. And I Will Follow You Into The Dark

My apologies to anyone that read the first version of this. Had to change some things. It's much better now.  
Enjoy

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione breaks the water’s surface with a crash that rings in her ears. The frigidity of the lake water is less a temperature than it is a thousand needles pricking her skin. Much to her alarm, the sensation does not relent after the initial shock, and within a few seconds the stinging intensifies until it’s almost unbearable.

Out of reflex more than anything else, the witch starts kicking, her arms reaching outward and pushing the water downward desperately. Something in her shoulder twinges, then pops, and her whole arm goes numb.

This is her first _oh shit_ moment.  
The second comes what feels like minutes but is probably only a few seconds after.

Hermione’s head finally surfaces, she makes out the lakebed about ten yards away, and the last of her adrenaline leaves her body. She had just cast the most powerful magic of her lifetime, and it had taken every bit of strength left in her to simply come up for air. The tank was empty. And Hermione knew, with a terror she felt in her bones, that she wasn’t making it to shore.

She’s still thrashing when her head goes back under. She knows it’s futile like she knows the sky is blue but some animalist instinct won’t let her give up. So she kicks, and she sinks, and her lungs begin to _burn_ ….

And it’s funny, all that time she spent accepting death.  
And it’s funny, all that time afterward,  
wanting a death sentence back like it was a prize snatched away.

But then she went to Celcia’s,  
And she did the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy  
And she found things that made her happy again  
And she enrolled in school  
And she rekindled all her relationships - friendship and otherwise  
And she began a research job  
And she started thinking about what came next.

Next.

Like it was there was an after, a future, another chapter  
For her.

Funny how you don’t realize you’re better until something else happens.

Funny she didn’t realize she actually, honestly, wanted to live until she was drowning.

 _It’s not fucking fair._ She thinks desperately. Her limbs are becoming too heavy to thrash. Her vision is going dark.

 _Come on, Hermione._ A voice whispers in her head. _When has anything in your life ever been fair?_

Her mouth twists into a bitter smile, and she finally stills.

~*~

Her lungs are on fire.  
Hermione regains consciousness laid out on her side, throwing up a stomach full of water.

Her esophagus burns, but she’s not cold anymore, and after a minute or so of rugged gasping, breathing gets a bit easier.

“That’s it, you’re alright. You’re alright.” She’s vaguely aware that someone is kneeling next to her body. A large hand pressed against her back, seemingly to keep her from rolling over and choking on the water she’s so desperately trying to expel from her lungs. She’s also aware something that feels like a wand is pressed firmly into the flesh of her bad shoulder. When her breaths quiet, someone resumes murmuring incantations under their breath, the wand tip tracing patterns down her arm.

Eventually, Hermione gathers enough strength to open her eyes and peer at the world around her. It’s properly nighttime now, and she’s laying in a patch of sand along the lakebed. Squinting, she sees that the lake in question has gone black, starlight dappling across the ripples. It almost looks pretty.  
It might be the lack of oxygen getting to her, but a sudden laugh bubbles up in the pit of Hermione’s stomach.  
She almost died! The lake is not allowed to look _pretty_ …!

The witch manages a singular giggle before she devolves into a coughing fit. With one final spell, her accomplice removes his wand from her arm and shoves it into the back pocket of his muggle jeans. She’s suddenly hoisted upright and onto his lap, where she uncharacteristically forgoes any façade of strength, throws her arms around his neck and clings to him, rapidly trying to get her breathing back under control.

“I got you.” Fred’s tenor rumbles through his chest, large, calloused hands rub up and down her back. Hermione drops her head onto his shoulder, her face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. She’s never been more exhausted.

“I’m going to apparate now.” The twin murmurs into her hair. “Just hold on to me, okay?”

There’s a brief, weightless, spinning sensation - so similar to what they had just gone through and yet not at all… and then they land in a strange, darkened room.

“Fred…?” Hermione croaks as he gently deposits her on a couch that seems to materialize from the darkness.

“One second.”

As the twin pulls away, she can see for the first time that he’s soaked. His red hair is darkened, slavishly raked back out of his eyes. His shirt is skin tight against broad shoulders and water droplets bead down his face.

Hermione tries and fails to properly sit up. Her limbs feel as if they weigh a thousand pounds, and her temples pound as if someone’s attacking her head with an icepick. She’s seconds from lapsing unconscious again when Fred reappears. He crouches next to the couch and puts one hand bracingly on her good shoulder.

“Take this.” The wizard’s words are clipped, voice carrying a degree of urgency that makes her frown. Regardless, she does as he says, reaching out to take a small, uncorked vial with trembling hands. She wonders how something so small could weigh so much, and tentatively tips it back into her mouth. Her face scrunches at the familiar metallic taste.

“Pepper up?” She slurs. “Fred Imfine.” The wizard’s eyes narrow, brow furrowed.

“Hermione, you spent all your magic, almost drowned, and you’re basically hypothermic. Take the damn thing.” She considers the vial.

“But I don’t feel cold.”

“I know.” Fred’s voice is almost harsh. “And that’s bad. Now drink - and finish it all.”

Fighting off another harsh wave of exhaustion, she does as he says, and is surprised to find her mind clearing considerably within a few seconds. She gives her head a shake.

“Well...fuck.”

“Yeah.”

A few seconds later everything seems to come into focus. He’d turned the lights on - how had she not noticed that?

After a few rapid blinks, Hermione finally glances about her and is greeted by a large expanse of gleaming hardwood floors, an impressive grey stone fireplace, and high lofted ceilings. The couch she’s currently lying on is made from a brown, plush leather. It’s arranged around the fireplace with a few other couches, a rustic wooden coffee table in the center.

“Where…?” Her voice is shot. She clears her throat and tries again. “Where are we?”

“The flat above the shop.” Fred answers, his eyes never leaving her. “You’ve never been up here before, have you?”

Hermione gives her head a small shake, still surveying in the room. To say she’s a bit taken aback at how nice it is would be an understatement, but she supposes it checks out. The joke shop had been extremely profitable before the war, she couldn’t even imagine how good business was in the two years after.

As her eyes drift to an impressive wall of windows behind them, her body convulses into a violent shiver. Pinpricks of pain begin to erupt across her skin.

“What…?”

“No, no, it’s good. You’re finally warming up - the feelings coming back.” Fred gently takes her arm with one hand and wraps his hand around her waist, helping her rise from the couch.

Suddenly in too much pain to bother asking where they’re going, Hermione lets Fred guide her further into the flat until they reach a bathroom. Hermione does a double take. Not only is she shocked to discover there a stocked linen closet and toilet paper and scented hand soap - which is all too rare to find in any bathroom belonging to two 24 year old men - but the bathroom is gorgeous. The crown jewel of the room, a shower against the far wall, is gigantic as far as showers go. It’s completely chiseled from white stone, complete with a glass door and a large rainfall showerhead.

“Fred, what the -”

“I’ve set the water lukewarm.” The older wizard interrupts distractedly, nudging her toward the shower. “Don’t go too hot at first or it’ll shock your system, but you need to get warmed up.”

Hermione nods mutely for a second before she realizes he’s turned back to the hallway, leaving her alone. Now that her ability to think clearly is returning, it suddenly clicks that he must have been the one to pull her out of the lake. She wasn’t making it to shore on her own.

And maybe his magic isn’t shot, and he didn’t almost drown, but there’s no way in hell that he’s not as cold as she is from jumping in after her. Despite the twin’s flat being beyond anything she could have expected, she’s willing to bet anything they didn’t bother putting in a second bathroom.

“Stop!” Her voice comes out louder than she intended, cutting through the sound of running water coming from the shower. Fred turns back in an instant, eyes flickering across her in alarm.

“Wha -? Are you okay?”

“Get in with me.” She hates how desperate her voice sounds, but there is no way she’s letting him freeze while he waits up on her -

A pained expression flashes across Fred’s face.

“Love, really, it’s okay.” Hermione shakes her head.

“Get in with me.”

“Mio-”

“I need you to get in with me.” A tear, unbidden, slides down her cheek. She’s shaking but pretty sure it has nothing to do with being cold. “Please.”

In a few strides Fred returns to her, pulling her soaked sweater over her head while she unfastens the button on his jeans. Within seconds they’re undressed, and despite his protests she’s right - his skin is clammy, cold, and covered in goosebumps. He’s shivering almost as bad as she is.

And then he’s pulling her into the shower and holding her tight under the spray. His muscular chest is warm against her body and she relaxes at the sound of his heartbeat. Periodically Fred reaches out, and turns the shower warmer and warmer as they thaw.

It’s a few minutes later that she really begins to cry.

  
“Hey, hey, what’s up?” Fred pulls back slightly so he can see her face. Hermione shakes her head, unable to make eye contact.

“I’m just gonna miss you.” The words almost stick coming out. Fred reaches up to cup her jaw, soothing his thumb across her cheek.

“It’s just two weeks.” Her murmurs softly. “I’ll back before you know it, I prom-”

“It’s not the clinical rotations.” Hermione interrupts, sniffing. “I’m just...I’m just gonna really miss you.”

There’s a heart beat of silence and then Fred pulls away, appraising her a hard glint in his eyes.

“You can’t really think -”

“I won’t - I _don’t_ \- blame you -”

“Hermione-” Her name is more a growl than a word. She chokes back a sob.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so so sorry -”

“We’re not talking about this now.” His voice is hard. Hermione’s breaths are coming in gasps.

“I shouldn’t have done that to you, I didn’t - I _swear_ I didn’t mean to...and now-” She hiccups. “Now it’s all ruined -”

“STOP!” Fred bellows, the sound jarring as it ricochets in the confinements of the shower. Hermione startles into silence. He scrubs a hand down his face. Takes a breath. “I don’t - _can’t_ \- talk about this now. And I don’t think you can either. Not like how we need to talk about it.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I mean fuck I just pulled you out of a _goddamn lake_.” He splutters another laugh. _“In December!”_

Hermione wants the floor to swallow her whole. She wants to crawl out of her skin. Wants to apparate anywhere, fucking anywhere, else. She half considers if she could manage it in the state she’s in without splinching herself too badly. It might be worth a try.

Fred catches whatever look is on her face and stiffens beside her.

“Okay, wait - wait, wait, wait - that all came out so wrong -”

“I need to go.” Hermione manages hollowly, moving toward the shower door as if in a trance. “I’m just need to -”

“You don’t scare me.”

Whatever she expected him to say, it wasn’t that.

When she turns back, Fred’s jaw is set. His eyes glisten.

“You- you don’t scare me, alright? I’m in awe of you.” He swallows hard. “I always have been, but … seeing all that …” His mouth twists. “There’s a lot I need to process, and I can’t do it all now, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that everything you’ve been through? It doesn't scare me. Your strength amazes me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her chest constricts.

“Don’t say that.” Any semblance of composure Hermione had been desperately clinging to shatters irreparably. Her words become muddled by sobs. “That’s not fair! You can’t… you can’t just say things like that and not mean it -”

“I do mean it.” Fred responds fiercely. Hermione turns away.

“Maybe you _want_ to mean it but you can’t possibly -” Her breathing is speeding up, breaths coming quick and shallow. “There’s no way you can -”

“I’m not my brother.”

And there it is.

They’re both quiet. She can’t look at him. The sound of the running water echoes in the large bathroom.

Fred’s the first to break the silence.

“We’re not talking about this anymore tonight. You need to rest.”

Despite herself, Hermione manages a watery smile.

“You’re always taking care of me.” She rasps.

“You’re always saving me.” Fred returns.

They’re quiet again.

“We should wash up.”

They keep to themselves at first. Hermione’s dragging a washcloth across her skin. Fred’s shampooing his hair.

  
And then he realizes he’s got too much leftover product.  
Then he’s got her by the hip, turning her around, massaging the rest of the shampoo into her curls.  
Hermione’s relaxing against him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. His arms curl around her stomach.

“Fred?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re right. I don’t wanna talk.”

And then she spins around, slants her mouth on his, and it’s like a spell is broken.

His hands, grabbing her waist.  
Her nails, digging into his shoulders.

All of a sudden she’s got his lower lip between her teeth, and he’s gasping into her mouth, and she’s reaching down to stroke him, and he’s sucking hickeys into the base of her throat…

“Turn around, Princess.”

She does, and is abruptly very aware of the length of him pressing against her back until he grazes her clit with thumb, curls two fingers inside her, and her concentration slips. Hermione bucks her hips with a moan, and then almost shrieks as he pinches her left nipple just as he nips at her earlobe, completely overstimulating her.

“Fred -! Fred, please - please Fred…!”

“Use your words, Love.” The older wizard murmurs, gently applying more pressure to her clit.

“I - _oh_ , oh!”

“C’mon, Mi.” Fred whispers patronizingly into her hair. “What do you want?”

“You - I -” She bats his teasing hand away so she can focus on talking, but he’s undeterred and moves it right back, arcing his thumb in a circle that brings her right up to the edge. She can’t catch her breath.

“No! No I want - _fuck Fred!_ ” The whine that escapes her is absolutely pathetic. She can feel Fred shaking with sudden laughter behind her.

“Yes?” He almost sings, and she can’t take it anymore.

“I need you inside me!” Hermione cries. “I need you inside me when I cum!”

In a matter of seconds his hands are gone, she’s spun around, and then lifted into the air, her back hitting the shower wall hard. Her arms automatically go around his neck, her thighs rest above his hips, and her legs tighten around him.

“Fred!”

His cock is at her entrance, the pressure against her folds making her light headed with need. She wants to tell him to hurry up, but then there’s a sudden, harsh thrust, he’s inside her.

The gasp that escapes her is borderline pornographic.  
She’s so _full._

“You feel so fucking amazing…” His aloof demeanor slipping, Fred thrusts into her hard. She can feel him catching on her ridges, and it’s all she can do to bury her face into the crook of his neck and try to hold it together.

“Oh... _oh!_ Fred! Fred!” The pressure is building, building, and then he shifts slightly, and the angle changes, and he hits something just right. Hermione comes with a scream, her head thrown back and hitting the shower wall with a thud.

As she comes, she can feel herself tightening around him, and Fred moans. His thrusts become desperate, sloppy, and then there’s a warmth as he fills her up and spills down her thighs.

Fred sets her down and gathers her to him, holding her tight against his chest as he tries to catch his breath. Hermione peers up at him, her mind in a muddled, lovely daze. His cheeks are flushed a deep pink and his thick red hair is a mess, curling in the humidity. Soft brown eyes seem to just _sparkle_ as he looks down at her, and he dips his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of her head.

“C'mon, Mi. Let’s get you to bed.”


End file.
